The Oncoming Storm
by c0ppertone
Summary: Mikey Way escapes the confines of Battery City when he comes of age, hoping to become a Killjoy - a hero to the repressed, and an enemy of Better Living Industry. MCR slash fic set in the Killjoy Era. Various pairings and a dash of femmslash.
1. Prologue

**The Oncoming Storm**** – Mega Short Prologue**

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey)  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13 (for now)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Language and mild violence

**Notes: **_Right, here are the facts for y'all - this is a fanfic I started to write back in the latter half of March. So far, there are six chapters - the seventh is being written right now - and a prologue, all of which I'm uploading today. _

_For now, this fic will be rated T, but that's certain to change. I'm removing all author's notes after this one so you don't have to read my ramblings. This fic can also be read on Livejournal and Tumblr, as can all of my others. If you are actually reading this, I hope you enjoy it! c:_

* * *

><p>September, 2019. Mikey Way, a resident of Battery City, had hit the all important age of 21. The age where the boys were separated from the men; the age where kids were finally given freedom.<p>

In a city that was supposedly 'perfect' under the 'watchful' eye of Better Living Industries, the transition into adulthood was vital. You either spread your wings and flew the nest to a better place in society, or took off only to come crashing back down to the slums – a fate worse than death.

It was all bullshit. Mikey wanted out.

He'd always been one of the few who could see through BLIND's force-fed lies and brainwashing. One of the few rebels in District 7 that stayed up late, that played his music loud and proud. His most valued possession was his battered old bass that he would often play into the early hours of the morning, until his calloused fingers ached and his mind went completely calm and numb. Music was escape from the troubles of an oppressed society, an escape he valued dearly.

Now he was old enough, he was taking his bass and getting the fuck out of this city. No longer would he stand to live in this hellhole; this den of unnatural selection, liars and thieves. Instead of taking a leap of faith into the inevitable monotony of ordinary life, he was gonna take an entirely different path.

Mikey was heading out into the wider world. Into the Zones of the New Californian desert.

He'd heard about the Zones. Heard they were dangerous places, full of outlaws and rogues – Killjoys. The more the Reverends degraded and insulted them, the more Mikey grew to respect them. As a teenager, he wanted nothing more than to _BE _a Killjoy. He wanted to be the stuff of legends, an enemy of Better Living Industries that could never be forgotten. A hero to the kids – 'Drac-slayer Extraordinaire'.

It was crazy, it was far-fetched. He knew that, but he just didn't give a fuck. Now was his chance to soar above the scum and make his mark... he just had to follow his dreams.

Grabbing a well-worn rucksack and packing it with the bare necessities for survival, Mikey crept past his parents' makeshift floor-beds and out of the front door. He gave his guardians a final glance before he stepped outside. Leaving them behind without so much as a goodbye was bittersweet: whilst it saved him the awkwardness and interrogation, it left him with a burning guilt. These were the pair who'd tried their best to support them in this shithole District, and he hadn't even thanked them for their valiant effort.

It was too late to turn back now, though.

The night air was pleasantly cool on Mikey's face, a contrast to the usual sweltering heat of the day. Slowly and almost silently, he worked his way through the maze of streets – he was in no hurry, the night was young and he didn't want to be caught by any stray patrols. Minutes spent navigating soon turned to hours, until he finally reached the lowest, least protected area of Battery City's great outer wall.

_Show time._

Mikey clambered awkwardly over the ruined segment, freezing upon any sudden noise. It was well past midnight by the time he had safely crossed into the unknown.

Freedom had never tasted sweeter.

Adjusting the rucksack on his back, Mikey Way stepped out into the Zones to face his future.


	2. Just A Little Bit Lost

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Chapter 1 – Just A Little Bit Lost<strong>

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey)**  
><strong>**Rating: **PG-13 (for now)**  
><strong>**Warnings: **Language and mild violence. Slash will start in a later chapter.

**Chapter Summary: **Hopelessly lost in the New Californian desert, Mikey meets an unlikely saviour.

* * *

><p><em>I think my head's gonna explode…<em>

Having walked for two days straight under the heat of the burning sun, Mikey was at his wit's end. He could feel his pallid skin begin to blister beneath its glare, so used to living in the city's shadows that the sudden sunlight had a horrid effect. His feet were sore from the trek, his mind exhausted, but still he couldn't find a trace of human life – for better or for worse.

Fuck. He really, really needed a drink, but being the idiot he was, he'd drank the last of the water the day before. Damnit, he regretted that now. His whole body cried out for water; he was pretty damn sure that if he didn't find any soon, he'd pass out.

_I'm gonna die out here, I swear…_

Unable to bear the heat for any longer, Mikey wearily peeled the shirt from his sweat-coated torso, exposing his pale and sensitive skin to the relentless daylight, and tied it around his head – a messy, makeshift bandana. It'd have to do. Sure, his back would suffer, but at the moment in time he wasn't thinking clearly and just couldn't give a single fuck.

_Thirsty. Need shade. Gonna die. Oh shit._

Mirages swam before his eyes, tempting and dangerous. A particularly deadly cactus somehow became a pool of cool, refreshing water. A jagged rock became a lush oasis.

Nothing really made sense anymore.

Even if he didn't die, he knew he'd end up batshit insane.

He sighed, but kept on walking at a steady pace, hoping that he'd stumble on a miracle. Pff, yeah. Like that was gonna happen. Mikey and luck did NOT go together.

He'd grown up watching his so-called 'friends' love and leave him, abandoning him at the first whiff of an offer from Better Living Industries. That was the thing, though – what he lacked in luck and opportunities, he'd always made up for in common sense. Whereas the dumb fuckers around him were the little lapdogs of BLIND, Mikey saw through it all. The kids who received "honourary" positions there were carted off to the main headquarters, happy and blissfully unaware that they'd never be seen again. Ever.

And the worst thing about it? No one gave a shit. In fact, if anything, the more it went on, the less people cared. Parents were all too willing to hand over their children to those bastards, for a quick buck and maybe a little reward on the side. It was disgusting to say the least.

What happened to the kids sent to BLIND? Fuck knows. Mikey's best guess was that they all became lab rats – guinea pigs for the latest perfectionist-drug; hell, they'd have been better off dead with a fate like that.

The problem was, the entire situation always struck too close to home for Mikey. He had a personal vendetta against BLIND – that's right, he wasn't just in this for the good of Battery City. No, this was for his own gain, too. That's what kept him trekking through the wastes: he knew that this was for everyone, himself especially himself.

You see, Mikey had just one friend throughout his childhood – the short, dark-haired Frank Iero. They'd met near the abandoned warehouse in District 8, and had struck up an instant friendship. Both saw through the bullshit of society. Both escaped it all through their passion for music. Both wanted to make a difference, but didn't have a clue where to begin.

Their similarities soon made them inseparable – blood brothers, joined at the hip from the age of twelve. They fought the power together, and kept no secrets from each other.

Frank would always lend Mikey an ear and a shoulder to cry on when he felt especially awkward and sombre. He'd even trusted him with what he'd considered to be his biggest secret – that he didn't like like girls, he liked guys. And when Mikey broke down in tears before him, stuttering out his apologies for even mentioning it and begging for him to forgive and forget, Frank didn't judge him or runaway.

No, instead he picked him up from the ground, pulled him into a hug and told him it was okay, that he was okay. He told Mikey he was so strong for coming out to him, and that he didn't need to worry, not at all. The kid had never felt more accepted.

Mikey couldn't have asked for a better friend. Sadly, all good things come to an end, and this was no exception.

Frank's parents had never particularly loved him – he was the youngest, the smallest, the runt of the litter – and not long after his 17th birthday, he was ever so conveniently offered a position at District 5's BLIND Lab. His mother jumped at the chance to get rid of an extra mouth to feed… so against everything he wanted, Frank was shipped off without even a farewell to his best friend.

He hadn't been seen since.

Those bastards needed to pay. And pay with their fucking lives.

But Mikey was getting weaker and weaker, despite his best efforts to keep going. The world was blurring and warping in front of his eyes, and he felt exhausted beyond belief… It was as if the sun kept getting hotter, his throat drier, and his legs heavier. He was struggling to keep his eyes open.

"F-fuck…" With that said, Mikey collapsed to the ground, his knees giving out and letting him fall. Though he tried his best to stay conscious, the cool, inky darkness in his mind was too much to say no to.

Practically in the middle of no-man's land, the kid passed out.

—-

_Where am I…?_

Mikey came to his senses god knows how many hours later – the sun was just beginning to set over the mountain range, bathing the desert in shades of dark orange and red. But something was up. He'd been moved in his sleep, because now he found himself leaning against a stone wall… and shit, someone had tied up his hands!

Opening his eyes with apprehension, Mikey blinked to adapt to the brightness before tilting his head upwards to get a look at his captor…

_Oh, shit…_

Make that captors. Surrounding him was a patrol of five or six Draculoids, looking particularly menacing with their unreadable, mask-hidden expressions… and, well, not to mention the big-ass fucking ray-guns they were pointing directly at him.

_Well, isn't this just fucking wonderful?_

If he was going to die now, he wasn't going to beg for mercy. He was going to look them right in the face and laugh. Fuck it all.

He braced himself for the end, but something strange was going on… the Dracs weren't even looking at him anymore. They were looking into the distance, their stances defensive and nervous. Something had scared them, and Mikey couldn't even turn around to see what it was.

Mikey could hear a noise in the distance – a low pitched rumbling. Was that what he thought it was? A car? In the middle of this fucking wasteland?

Right on cue to answer his question, a battered, classic car roared by and screeched to a halt. Out jumped a tall, lean (and, even if Mikey didn't want to admit it yet, sexy) man, armed with a wild fro and an oddly colourful ray gun. With aviators perched on the end of his nose, he assessed the situation with a smirk and raised his weapon, opening fire.

The Draculoids didn't stand a chance. One by one they fell… it was as if they hadn't expected to be stopped at all. Either that or they were all just fucking rookies.

The mysterious stranger blew the smoke from his gun and placed it in his belt with an expert's flourish. He surveyed the destruction he'd left behind, looking quite pleased with himself.

It was only then that he seemed to notice Mikey. The man looked him up and down and stepped forwards, drawing his ray gun again and aiming. Mikey flinched. Shit, was he after him as well? He closed his eyes and tensed up as he heard the gun fire…

To his surprise, he was still alive. When he looked down at his previously bound hands, though, he saw that he was free now.

This man had saved his life and set him free. How could he even start to repay him?

"Listen, kid. If you wanna live, you're gonna have to come with me." The stranger extended a hand for Mikey to take, and Mikey snapped out of his awe-induced haze to grip it, blushing.

How could he say no?


	3. Start Running

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Chapter 2 – Start Running<strong>

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey)  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13 (for now)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Language and mild violence. Pre-slash starts this chapter

**Chapter Summary: **Mikey finds himself swept up into a Trans Am by his mysterious saviour, and tries his damn hardest to find out anything and everything about him.

* * *

><p>Mikey and his saviour had been travelling for what seemed like days in the Trans Am, and the kid still had no idea who he was. He didn't even know his name yet… not that he'd had the guts to ask.<p>

That was Mikey's problem – he was too awkward, too unsure of himself to have the social skills to ask. It'd always been that way - especially during his younger days in Battery City. He'd never had to guts to talk to many people; the streets were rough, and the people were rougher. It wasn't exactly the ideal environment for a young boy with such low self esteem to grow up in.

Frank had helped him through his awkwardness the best he could, but the moment he'd left, it was back to square one. Mikey wasn't a people person… he never had been, and he knew that he never would be. But even now, when he could really do with just a little confidence, his insecurities failed him.

_Fuck, what do I even say…?_

It was weird. He felt compelled to trust this man, despite how little he actually knew about him. Was it the fact that he'd saved him? Was it that he could tell he was a Killjoy? Both? Or maybe, something else entirely… shit. Mikey was beyond confused, and it definitely didn't help matters that he'd instantly been attracted to the guy, without time to even consider the reasons why.

"S-so, umm… can I ask what your name is?" He finally worked up the courage to speak, but his voice was embarrassingly croaky, accompanied by a slight nervous stutter.

_Smooth… fucking smooth operating, Michael._

The wild haired man said nothing, just grunting softly and gesturing to Mikey to be quiet with his free hand. His expression was mainly unreadable behind his shades, but from what Mikey could see, he seemed to be concentrating on something…

_The radio?_

"Alright children, the lights are out and the party's over. It's time for me, Dr. D, to start running and say goodbye for a little while… And I know you're gonna miss me, so I'll leave you with…"

The signal seemed to give out a little at that point, and the Killjoy seemed more than a little pissed, pounding on the old-style device with his gloved fist until it decided to co-operate again.

"PSKZZT…radiation we call the sun? It'll burst you into flames if you stay in one place for too long. That is if the static don't get you first. So remember, even if you're dusted, YOU may be gone – but out here in the desert, your shadow lives on without you. This is Doctor Death Defying, signing off."

To Mikey's surprise, the old American anthem began to play, making him jump a little in his seat. Thousands of questions ran through his mind, all bursting to get out.

_Who are you? Who the fuck is Death Defying? What the heck was he going on about? Where did he go?_

But the frustration and… sheer sadness written all over the man next to him silenced Mikey's questions before they could escape his mouth. Without taking his eyes off of the trail, he turned the radio down and spoke for the first time since rescuing Mikey.

"Listen kid. I know how you feel, I know you've got questions. I can understand that; but right now, we need to hit the gas and get moving. And fucking quickly, too. Save 'em. Bombard me with 'em later, I won't mind. But right now, we need to get our asses moving to Zone 6 before we both get ghosted. Got that?"

Mikey just nodded weakly, but the man hadn't waited for a reaction. He'd already slammed down on the accelerator, and they were moving through the desert at a fucking scarily fast speed.

The adrenaline flowed as the wastes flew by.

_Well,_ he thought with a grin, _I'm pretty sure I could get used to this._

—-

By the time the Trans Am finally ground to a halt, the sun was setting and Mikey felt light-headed – he couldn't tell if it was because of fatigue, hunger, thirst or some other shit… and he didn't particularly care, either. He just felt like passing out again, there and then.

They seemed to have pulled up in some sort of sheltered alcove on the edge of the infamous Zones' Mountain range, near something that looked like a cave.

"C'mon, kid. Out you get, you look fucking exhausted."

Mikey was all too happy to oblige as the guy opened the door for him, but the moment he stepped out of the car his knees were giving out and he almost toppled over. Hair flying everywhere, the man rushed and hooked his arms under Mikey's in an attempt to save him, accidentally pulling him close to his chest in the process.

The kid's breath hitched at the contact, his face going red with embarrassment. Well, that was… unexpected.

"U-umm…" the guy's seemingly cool and collected demeanour slipped for a moment as he put Mikey back on two feet. "Let's just get you inside, yeah?"

He led the way, adjusting his aviators as he went, and Mikey followed without question.

Soon enough, they were making their way through the cave he'd spotted earlier. It was dimly lit and it stunk of gasoline – Mikey couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the smell. Random shit was scattered around: spare parts, beer bottles, clothes, you name it.

_Different._ Mikey thought with a smile. His old home in the slums may have been a bit ramshackle, but it was tidy; maybe a bit too tidy. He liked the chaos going on in here.

Picking some spot or other amongst the mess, the guy made himself comfortable and looked up at Mikey, finally taking off his shades and gesturing for him to sit down too. He moved some of the shit from the floor before he even considered complying, but soon enough he was on the floor.

"So, kid, like I promised earlier – fire away with the questions." He'd gone back to his non-chalant, 'I just don't give a fuck, bro' attitude, cracking open a beer bottle and leaning back against the rock.

"Well…"

_Make this shit count, Mikey._

"Okay, this is an obvious one. What's your name?"

"The name's Jet Star, kid. And yeah, I'm well aware it's a weird name. But I'm a Killjoy, that's how we roll." He pulled out his ray gun from his belt and twirled it around his finger, as if it proved a point. "We're named after our guns, y'know. It's all luck of the draw." He pointed to the strange writing on the gun, and Mikey had to squint to make out the '**JET STAR**' printed on it.

_Jet Star. That's got a nice ring to it…_ he thought distractedly.

"But anyway, kid. I should ask for your name, too. It's only fair."

He blinked, snapping out of his sudden daydream. "Err… my name's M-mikey…"

Jet took a moment to think about that. "Well, 'Mikey', if you wanna survive in the Zones, you're gonna need a bit of a name change. But we'll discuss that later… go on. I'm assuming you've got more to ask, kid."

"Why did you save me?" It was a simple question that'd been playing on his mind for a while.

"That's easy. I have morals, believe it or not. Saw those Dracs waiting around, I knew something was up… they only ever stay in one place for long if they've got a hostage or two. Drove over in the Trans Am, kicked some ass, and I couldn't exactly leave you there in the middle of the fucking desert, right? Besides, you seem tough enough. You could make a good Killjoy with the right training…" He trailed off for a little while, taking a swig of his beer and eying Mikey up. "And you're cute, too. That's a big bonus."

Mikey blushed crimson and looked away, grinning sheepishly and scratching the back of his neck (one of his many nervous habits). Jet Star just chuckled and winked at him.

"Hey, I'm only saying what I see. There's no shame out here." But Mikey still refused to look at him, and he eventually sighed in defeat. "Pff, alright then. Next question?"

Composing himself, Mikey pressed on. "S-so… what's it like to be a Killjoy?"

Jet's eyes lit up when he heard that. "Hell yes, I've been waiting for this one!"

Putting his beer down, he straightened himself up, and his untameable fro fell across his face as if it had a mind of its own.

"Well, where do I start? It's fuckin' amazing for the most part, but sometimes it isn't y'know. The best thing about it is the freedom – no-one can tell you what to do, and you can do whatever the fuck you like because of that. You get this, like, sense of pride whenever you do something that you know'll hurt BLIND, 'cause you know you're fighting the good fight. Yeah, it's great for most of the time…"

He sighed and frowned.

"But… it can be pretty tough, too. You're always on the run; safety ain't an option. Food's a tough bitch to find sometimes. Plus, it gets real lonely out here. It's worth every minute of it though, trust me. You've just gotta be cut out for it! Anything else you wanna ask?"

"Yeah, actually. Just one more question…"

"Oh really now?"

"When the fuck can I start?"

Jet threw his head back and laughed – this was all going better than he'd expected. "You're definitely eager! How's tomorrow morning sound?"

Mikey giggled. "Sounds perfect."


	4. To Think It Started So Well

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Chapter 3 – To Think It All Started So Well...<strong>

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey)  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13 (for now)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_Plenty_ of lovely foul language and mild violence, and very mild slash.

**Chapter Summary: **Hangovers, fevers, and failed attempts.

* * *

><p><em>Urgghhh, fuck it all.<em>

The sun, being the lovely ball of bastardised fire it is, had decided to rudely awaken Mikey at god fucking knows what hour. He was tired. He was hungover. But most of all, he was pissed off at an inanimate object that was millions of miles away. Such a lovely way to start the morning.

_Are you shitting me...?_

Happy and fucking annoyingly joyful, the sun made its merry little journey above the tips of the mountains, bringing more and more dawn light into the messy cave he'd been resting in. Mikey wasn't a morning person on the best of days, but this just took the fucking cake. And ate it. And then spat it out. Onto his face.

He felt like a grumpy old bear, and no doubt he was growling like one too – not that he gave a fuck. It was too early. Way too early for anything. Especially seeing as he had a splitting headache and nausea to match.

What exactly had happened last night, anyway? It was a little bit blurry for Mikey. Jet Star had tossed him a beer, and the rest was history. The kid had a shit alcohol tolerance at the best of times, but he was certain nothing bad had happened while he'd been under the influence.

What he did remember was pretty simple, really. Jet had got talking about some of his latest adventures, and Mikey had just sat there, listening with a sort of overly obvious drunken awe. The killjoy seemed to feed off of the attention, getting more and more into his little storytelling routine.

His enthusiasm was bloody contagious. Mikey found himself pissed out of his mind and giggling like a maniac, asking about all sorts of heroic feats like some shameless, doting little fanboy.

_Damn... I'm seriously embarrassing when I'm drunk._

He couldn't have been more accurate with that thought. Mikey was always overly-happy, gullible and giggly when he drank. Not that he could control it; that's just how he rolled. Frank always used take the piss out of that, the bastard.

In all honesty, he was just hoping and praying he'd not made himself look like _that _much of an utter moron in front of Jet Star.

_... Oh. Speak of the devil... _

As if he'd suddenly turned telepathic and knew Mikey had been thinking about him, Jet began to stir from the other side of the cavern. He stretched, yawned loudly, and ran his hands through the wild, mind-of-its-own-don't-fuck-around-with-it-it'll-probably-eat-you fro on his head (not that Mikey was blatantly staring, what gives you that impression?).

Well, fuck. The killjoy didn't look tired, or hungover, or anything vaguely negative really. Nope, instead he already looked fully alert and ready to get up and go, brushing himself down and shifting the piles of random shit that had surrounded him in the night.

"Hmph... mornin', kid."

"Morning yourself..." Mikey began, still laid on the floor and feeling scarily dizzily as he watched Jet move around. "How are you even _alive_ this early, Jet? Fuck, I'm too hungover to even move."

Jet shrugged and carried on trying to organise the chaos around him, not that he was really succeeding. "You just sort of get used to it out here. Always gotta be ready to run, you get me? Besides, you can't hold a drink to save your life – trust me, I can tell that already – so it don't surprise me one bit that you're feeling shit." He gave up the little cleaning mission as a failed attempt and slumped down to the floor next to Mikey, looking at him with just a bit of worry... but a lot of amusement.

Mikey averted his eyes and snorted, flushing a little under the stare. "Fuck you, man... You're the one who got me dru—" He was cut off mid-sentence by a pathetic groan as his stomach clenched in pain.

Now Jet Star was just a _tad _bit more concerned, to say the least. "Shit. Mikey, are you okay there...?"

Mikey just shook his head. Hell no, he wasn't okay. His whole body was burning up, and the sickness he felt refused to go away.

_I BLAME THE FUCKING SUN! GAH!_

Unsure of what to do, Jet gently placed the back of his hand on the Mikey's forehead, only to pull it away a split second later – fuck! The kid was on fucking fire! He needed water, and quick...

Conveniently enough, his half-empty canteen was within arms' reach, and he grabbed it – it'd have to do for now - and shoved it into Mikey's hands.

"Listen to me, kid. You need to drink up, I've got this bad feeling you're getting a fever. You need the fluids."

Mikey didn't even bother to acknowledge the instruction, diving straight in for the kill and drinking it all before Jet could finish speaking. Cool water trickled down his face where it'd managed to escape, and he sighed in relief... but it wasn't exactly over yet.

"Sh-shit, why am I still burning...?" He fell back to the floor, wiping the sweat from his brow and panting.

In any other situation, the sight Jet had before him would be fucking _delicious. _But right now, he had to wrestle back the stupid little perverted demons in the back of his mind and focus on helping.

Oh dear.

His mind could only come up with one solution right now.

And it wasn't exactly gonna help his little moral conflict.

"Err, Mikey...?"

His only response was another pathetic groan and a tiny nod.

"Umm, I don't know how to put this, but... if you want to cool down, you're gonna have to... strip off a little." He grimaced at his own stupidity as the last words came out, and he waited for the bad reaction he was pretty damn sure he'd get.

Mikey looked up a Jet, blushing furiously at what he'd just heard (even if he _claimed _it was the heat making him blush) – had he even heard him right at all, anyway? This was fucking embarrassing... but at the same time, the kid didn't mind it, either.

_**Aha, Mikey likey~  
><strong>__Brain. I would really appreciate it if you'd shut the fuck up now.  
><em>_**Admit it, you **_**like **_**him...  
><strong>__I barely know the guy! What the fuck are you talking about?  
><em>_**So what? That means shit. You like him. Let him strip you off, for god's sake. DON'T WASTE THIS CHANCE, FUCKTARD.  
><strong>__Okay, I have no idea what's going on but I think I'm fucking losing it. Why is my brain talking to me...?_

"Mikey?" He was snapped out of his little bout of fever-induced insanity to find Jet still leaning over him, looking increasingly worried and just a bit self-conscious about what he'd said earlier. "Can I...? Or is that a bit too... weird?"

Mikey just gulped and threw his inhibitions out of that ever-present imaginary window, placing his arms behind his head slowly and awkwardly. He hoped that'd give Jet a big enough clue.

Apparently it did, because now the Killjoy was hovering over him, half-straddling him and half not. Cue yet another battle of the subconscious, this time from the guy who was _supposed _to be the sane one of the pair.

_Well, this is awkward...  
><em>_**Shut up. You know you want to do it, really.  
><strong>__Fuck off! You don't know anything. You're just my brain.  
><em>_**I think you might want to rephrase that. Poor word choice.  
><strong>__... Shut it, you. Why am I even talking to myself?  
><em>_**I'm just your conscience, baby. And I'm telling you want to do this. Just admit it. Besides, he wants you to do it anyway, for one reason or another. Maybe more than one...  
><strong>__... Stop being right.  
><em>_**That's my job. Now just get to it before the poor kid dies of the heat and you die of sexual frustration. Oooh, zing.  
><strong>__That was uncalled for.  
><em>_**You needed it. Trust me.**_

Sick of his stupid _conscience _arguing with him, of all things, Jet finally gave in and got to work. He started with Mikey's shirt, peeling it off and finding it hard to resist the urge to run his hands over the pale, untouched skin that was being revealed.

_**And now you know why I said sexual frustration.  
><strong>__Oh, just. Shut. Up! I've been a lonely bastard, I can't exactly help it!  
><em>_**Whatever.**_

He tossed the shirt aside, not daring to look Mikey in the eye in fear of exploding from sheer embarrassment. Well, his loss – he was missing the bedroom eyes the now totally feverishly-insane the kid was sending his way, having lost any sense of dignity he had left (not that he had that much to begin with).

Jet wiped the nervous sweat from his brow and began to tug off Mikey's jeans, biting his lip and averting his eyes.

_Not cool, Jet, not cool..._

With Mikey stripped down to just his boxers, the killjoy scrambled away from the scene of the crime and sat a little further away, finally finding the courage to look at him again. Bad idea. Mikey looked fucking beautiful and exposed, and now he'd have the image burned into his mind every time he talked to him.

"S-so, umm... feeling any cooler yet?"

Still red-faced but looking a little less... deranged, Mikey nodded weakly, with an equally weak smile worming its way onto his face. "'m feeling... a bit better now, I think..." His voice was raw and dry, a quiet and almost inaudible sound that could barely be heard as he turned over onto his side. "It's still really fucking hot in here, though... and I feel sick. I'm really sorry about this..."

"S'okay. You need help, and I'm here to give it you. No apologies necessary."

_Stop staring, stop staring, stop staring...  
><em>_**Smooooooooth operating, Mr. Star.  
><strong>__OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL YOU LEAVE ME IN PEACE FOR JUST 5 MINUTES?_

"R-right... thank you. Fuck, it's _really _hot in here..." The poor kid was sweating again, his face turning crimson red. Yes, definitely a fever or something along those lines. Jet didn't doubt that at all now.

He started to stand up. "Look, Mikey... I'm gonna go get the extra water from the car, alright? I'll be back in a sec—"

But Jet Star was cut off by a slightly insane, half-naked, young blonde man wrapping himself around his ankles. "No... please, don't leave..."

The killjoy sighed and sat down again, blushing at the adorableness of the scene and patting Mikey's head lightly.

_This is gonna be a long day..._


	5. Look Alive, Sunshine

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Chapter 4 - Look Alive, Sunshine<strong>

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey)  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13 (for now)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_Plenty_ of lovely foul language, mild violence, terror, and mild slash.  
><strong>POV: <strong>3rd Person – Jet Star exclusive this chapter. You'll hear no ~Mikey thoughts~. XD

**Chapter Summary: **After a shaky start that didn't go to plan – at all – Mikey finally begins life as New Californian Killjoy.

* * *

><p>It took Jet Star nearly a week to nurse Mikey back to health. The poor kid had suffered from a whole manner of bullshit you can blame on the desert - heat stroke, dehydration, hallucinations, a fever, general insanity… name it, and he'd probably had to deal with it.<p>

As much as he felt sorry for the kid, he couldn't help but be weirdly happy about it all.

Why? Well, sick-Mikey was a peculiar case.

Instead of being bitchy, or constantly complaining, or just generally being a grumpy, sassy little bastard (like most of the sick people Jet had had to deal with before), the young man became oddly affectionate. Clingy, maybe – he wouldn't let the killjoy leave for more than a minute or two, so Jet found himself carrying a passenger in his arms whenever he needed to move around – but it was a welcome change to the usual bullshit. He got thanked for every little thing he did to help, he got countless hugs, and it made Jet feel fucking appreciated for the first time in god knows how long.

… plus, Mikey was almost-naked for the entire time.

What? Jet couldn't exactly stop himself from staring… he'd been a loner for far too long. Years, even. Every little thing set him off; in more than one way. After being a drifter for such a long time, with no real contacts and only the odd acquaintance, he was beyond fucking overjoyed for a companion of any kind…

… it just so happened that he really liked said companion and was already crushing on him like a hopeless schoolboy. Ah.

Jet had always been hopeless with romance, though. Every crush, every love he'd ever had either gone unrequited or ended in a messy one-night stand. Despite acting cool and suave around other people, he was about as awkward as Mikey's knees - which seemed to jut and bend inwards whenever he stood. He'd never been much of a people person, and he'd had his confidence crushed on more than one occasion, but he tried his damn hardest not to be a complete social _failure._

When was the last time he'd ever gotten _anywhere _with _anyone_? He couldn't even remember, to be honest… no doubt, it was some guy or girl that meant shit to him, screwed in some seedy bar or other while he was pissed out of his mind.

_Bullshit. I **seriously** fail at this whole 'relationship' business._

That's just how it worked for Jet Star, though. Sometimes he just felt as if he was doomed to be alone, and for the most part he just accepted that as one of those little "life's a bitch, deal with it" things. But whenever someone like Mikey came along… it made his heart hurt. It made his heart fucking burn with the need to be loved.

But he'd already given up. He knew he didn't have a chance.

After all, that was just the way it worked. That was how it always worked.

There was no point in even trying.

—-

Mikey finally began to stir a few hours later, just as dawn began to break the skies outside. The noise startled Jet out of his little half-sleep, half-thinking state, and he looked over to see the kid staring at him wordlessly – still topless – stretching and yawning as if everything was fine, as if this was totally and completely normal.

"Morning." He scratched his neck lazily, and Jet Star took his lack of awareness as an opportunity to look him up and down fully. Well, he was definitely looking better – he wasn't burning red from the heat anymore, oddly pale white and milky skin taking the angry colour's place. He could just imagine running his hands over it, feeling it twitch and shiver beneath his touch…

_Fuck, fuck, fuck! Stop thinking like that!_

"Morning yourself… feeling better today?"

The kid yawned again. "A lot better, actually. Thank you. Again…" He grinned dorkishly, probably realising just how many times he'd thanked Jet over the past few days. It was pretty adorable, really, even if the crazy-haired killjoy would never admit it out loud.

"That's good to hear. So, you think you're ready for a little bit of training?

"Fuckin' ready!" Mikey stood up and fist pumped the air enthusiastically, only to turn pale as a sheet a second later – it looked like he still wasn't _fully _himself yet, if his shaking knees were any indication…

"… well, shit." His legs gave out beneath him, and Jet had to rush to his rescue.

Again.

"Now, where have I seen _this _before…?" He whispered into Mikey's ear, smirking and revelling in the feeling of holding him so close. Well, he could definitely get used to doing this…

"Sh-shut up, it's not my fault!" Despite his best efforts to look mad, Mikey burst out into giggles in Jet's arms, leaning further into Jet's arms without even meaning to.

An awkward sort of silence fell between them. Jet didn't let go, and Mikey wasn't exactly stopping him. The younger man had a blush on his cheeks that refused to leave, while the Killjoy's heart pounded so quickly against his chest he was sure Mikey could hear it… or at least feel it.

"Umm, I think you're alright to let me go now." He said with a nervous tone to his voice after what seemed like an eternity.

"Err, right."

_Shit, I really screwed up on that one…_

Placing Mikey back on his feet, Jet dusted himself down in a completely-not-obvious, totally-not-avoiding-looking-at-him sort of way – as you do.

"But really though, I'm ready for this. I wanna start training today – I wanna be a Killjoy. Like you." He smiled; it was as if he'd chosen to forget what'd happened. Jet didn't know whether to be relieved or just plain disappointed.

"Well then. If you say you're up for it, I'm gonna have to take your word for it, huh? But with the state you're in, I may just have to hold your hand along the way…" he said this jokingly, but Mikey reached down to his side and took his hand in his own, giggling when he saw the look on the other's face.

"What? You said I could!"

Jet just sighed and facepalmed with his other hand, trying to hide his embarrassment. "I suppose I brought that one upon myself, yeah…" He paused for a moment in thought, looking Mikey up and down for what must have been the millionth time in the last few days. "Wait. You planning on going out like that?"

The kid must have been insane. He was still wearing practically nothing; just his shorts, to be fair.

"'Course I ain't!" he snorted, bending over – not that Jet was staring at his ass, of course – and picking up his jeans that'd been discarded what seemed like forever ago. Tugging them up with peculiar little jumps and wiggles, he giggled again. Damn, did he look proud of himself. The killjoy had no idea why, though.

"Now I'm ready!"

_But he's still topless… oh god. He's trying to kill me, I swear. The whole world's got something against me._  
><em><strong>Shut up and stare, you whiny little bitch.<br>**Oh, fuck you, subconscious. I do as I please._

Jet Star probably should've been more worried about his lack of sanity, but in all honesty, he'd learned not to give a fuck anymore. Scary stuff.

"Mikey… kid, you're gonna burn up like that. The sun's gonna toast you alive – we don't wanna repeat of before, do we?" Okay, so maybe that was a bit of a lie. A tiny little one, totally insignificant, obviously. He wouldn't mind if Mikey fell ill and he had to look after him again, notreally…

"Got any sunblock, Jet?" he grinned, but there was something… strange about the way he was looking at the other man. Something predatory. Yeah, Jet was beyond fucking confused by this conundrum of a new companion.

_Definitely tryin'a kill me._

"In the Trans Am, I'm pretty sure there's some in there…"

Mikey seemed impatient to get out there. "A'ight then, no reason to worry!" He was practically dragging him out of the cave by that point.

"Fucking hell, out we go then…" His enthusiasm was contagious; still hand in hand, the pair headed out in the glare of the sunlight with smiles on their faces.

—-

"You sure there's some in there?"

Mikey tapped his foot impatiently while Jet searched for that elusive tube of fucking suncream, the one that seemed to have oh-so-conveniently sprouted legs and gone for a little walk to the land of non-existence.

"I know it's in here somewhere…" he ran his hands through his hair in sheer frustration, when, as if by some kind of creepy and fucked up magic, it appeared before him. He'd sort of expected some kind of fanfare for finding it, like those little 8-bit tunes that played on the beat up old arcade machines he used to love so much, but apparently finding this son of a bitch wasn't worth the celebration.

Sighing, he tossed it to Mikey, who immediately began to rub down his exposed skin with the stuff. Seemed like he was more worried about the sun then he wanted to let on. Paranoid asshole.

Jet leant back against the side of the Trans Am, pushing his aviators further up the bridge of his nose – not that he was trying to hide the fact that he was being a creepy perverted starer. Nah. Total bullshit, of course he wouldn't do that.

"Shit…" Mikey muttered under his breath. There he was, in all his 'newly sane' glory, looking over his shoulder and spinning around like some sort of demented dog chasing his own tail.

_…the fuck?_

"Jet… I can't get it on my back." He frowned. "Can ya help me? I'm kinda screwed if my back's not safe…"

_Reason number seven million and one why this kid's out to kill me._

"S-sure thing, anything to get us moving faster, huh?"

The voice in his head laughed as his little unintentional double entendre.

Safe to say he was blushing like an idiot the moment he realised what he'd said.

Mikey, on the other hand, didn't seemed to notice – he still held out the suncream for Jet to take. Mentally giving himself a nice punch to the face, he finally obliged and took the damn thing, squirting a little onto his hands.

"Umm… turn around for me?"

_Awkward, awkward, awkward…_

With the nervousness refusing to leave, Jet stepped forward and tentatively brought his hands forward to Mikey's back; he had to hold back a gasp when he made contact with Mikey's skin. It was as smooth and touchable as he'd imagined, and damn, did he wish the circumstances were… different, to say the least.

He began to rub in the suncream with a gentle touch, mainly because he wanted to take his time and savour the moment he'd been given here. Mikey let out little noises of approval as he worked – that only fuelled him to do better, moving further down his back. Fuck, it may not have been much, but Jet still couldn't believe he was doing this.

"… I think that'll do now." Jet finally admitted in defeat, probably a long time after he actually should've said it.

The kid was blushing a furious sort of red when he turned around, but somehow Jet didn't even pick up on that. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. What we gonna do now?"

"Basic training, I guess. I'm gonna teach you how to handle a ray gun, yeah?" he shrugged as if it was nothing – he'd returned to his little cool and not-giving-a-fuck attitude to save himself from doing something stupidly embarrassing.

"I like the sounda that," he smiled, "so we gonna do that out here, then?"

"Yep, 've got some junk in the car we can use for target practice, y'know."

And Mikey burst out laughing.

"What's all that about?" He was bloody confused, but he couldn't help but grin at the kid's geekishly adorable little giggle.

"It's just… after what happened before, I fuckin' doubt you'll find ANYTHING in there."

"Oh, fuck you!" he said, flipping him off with his middle finger. "I bet you anything I'll find the shit I need real quick this time."

…

Surprisingly enough, Jet found jack shit 'real quick' in his quest for junk to point a ray gun at.

"Told you so! And to think you betted on it too, you idiot…" Mikey was in hysterics, which somehow managed to amuse him and piss him off at the same time.

He tossed an empty soda can in his direction, which hit him smack in the face. "Shut up! I'm getting there!"

Well. Definitely one way of shutting him up, he supposed.

"Oww… that was a bit harsh." He muttered, rubbing his cheek where it'd been hit.

"Well deserved, though…" Jet replied offhand, wandering away from the car to set up a shooting range on the nearby rocks. It wasn't much – a couple cans, empty beer bottles, the like – but it'd do for now. Mikey just needed something to point and shoot at.

And by the looks of it, he'd need to borrow his gun, too.

"Time for a quick lesson then, kid."

"A'ight, Jet."

He took his ray gun from its holster gently, checking it for scratches and dents on the way out – thankfully, there were none. What? His weapon was his baby. He probably took better care of it than he took care of himself.

"I'm pretty sure you know this shit already, but this here is a ray gun – they're pretty easy to handle, believe it or not, and they ain't half deadly." With a little flourish, he spun around and quickly took aim at the shooting range – within a second, a beam of light shot through the air, knocking a can from its spot and sending it flying.

"Holy shit. Good shot."

"Thanks." Jet grinned. "You've just gotta remember when you're handling one of these – aim and fire. You can't go wrong. Just don't be an idiot and shoot yourself in the face, y'hear?"

"Oh shut it, like I'd do anything like that…" Mikey said as he took the ray gun from Jet, who looked pretty damn reluctant to hand his baby over.

And then Mikey pointed it straight at himself like a complete fucktard.

"The fuck did I just say!" He rushed over and flipped the gun over before he blew his face off.

"Gah! Right, I was just… looking at it."

"You can be a real moron sometimes, y'know what I mean?"

"I know, it's just…" Mikey blushed, trailing off. "Whatever. You haven't seen the worst of it yet, believe me. Let's just get this shit done!"

He adjusted his grip on the gun until he felt comfortable, lifting it up slightly and aiming it at the nearest and biggest target he could see. Just so happened that was an empty paint can. Which he missed. Entirely.

Jet snorted. "Take your time, kid, you can't expect to get it right first shot."

Mikey's face screwed up in concentration as he aimed again, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Jet just watched, biting his lip and trying not to burst out laughing at what he was seeing here.

He took another shot.

Missed.

And another.

Missed again.

And that's when Jet finally broke down with laughter.

"What's so funny?" Mikey frowned, looking embarrassed and kinda angry.

"It's just…" Jet cut himself short. He'd come up with a fucking brilliant plan. Or. Well. At least hethought it was a brilliant plan… "C'mere. I'll help you out."

Yep. He was gonna get hands on – literally.

Mikey stepped closer to him, looking a bit confused, and Jet put his arms around him – to help him hold the ray gun, of course! He was pretty sure he felt Mikey's breath hitch when he did, but he knew what his mind was like. Didn't trust it for a second.

"Look. Just calm down; breathe in deep."

Well, that was ever so slightly hard to do when Mikey was practically hyperventilating.

"Look down the sight of the gun…" He did as he was told and squinted. "Good, good. Now you've gotta steady your hands. If you're shaking like a Chihuahua, your shot's gonna go to shit."

"R-right…" But his hands didn't want to stay still – so Jet had to tighten his grip, stopping his jitters by force.

Jet didn't notice, but Mikey was biting down on his lip and trying to stop himself from making an embarrassing little noise. He just helped him to get a better aim on that annoying little fuck of a paint can, even getting him to pull the trigger at the right time…

BAM.

Their target burst off of the rocks, finally, and Jet couldn't help but cheer. "See? Easy peasy pumpkin pie, motherfucker."

"Well, you did most of the work, to be honest." Mikey smiled shyly, turning around to face him again.

"Nah, it was all you, really." He grinned back, trying to be modest. "I mean –"

"Jet."

"—even if I did help a little, it's a start, right? You'll –"

"Jet."

"—get the hang of it. Before you know it, you might even be as good as me –"

"JET! TURN THE FUCK AROUND!" he exclaimed desperately, pointing behind Jet. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

And Mikey was right to be desperate. Jet spun around to see a bunch of Draculoids – four, maybe even five – staring at him, with those blank and expressionless faces hiding behind the equally blank and expressionless masks.

_Well, fuck._

"Shit, Mikey… looks like you're gonna have to put those skills to the test a little earlier than expected."

"What skills? I've only just fucking started learning!"

Oh, they were beyond fucked.


	6. The Kids From Yesterday

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Chapter 5 – Keep Running<strong>

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey), background implied Frerard (PP/FG)  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13 (for now)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_Plenty_ of lovely foul language, mild violence, terror, and mild slash.  
><strong>POV: <strong>3rd Person – Mikey exclusive this chapter. You'll hear no ~Jet Star thoughts~. XD

* * *

><p>They're just standing there, with their expressions unreadable behind their – in Mikey's opinion, anyway – stupid-looking masks. It's quiet, way too quiet, and the atmosphere's tense and pretty damn creepy.<p>

"We suggest you surrender now, Killjoys, if you wish to live to see the coming days." One finally says, not that Mikey can tell which, in an automated monotone. Looks like these bastards have been programmed to do this since Day 1.

"Or, how about you just get the fuck out before I get my partner here to shoot those damn masks off your faces?" Jet Star states bluntly, looking unfazed by the four ray guns pointing right at him.

_Partner? We're partners now? _Mikey's heart flutters at the thought, even though the situation isn't exactly the time or place to be thinking into shit like this. But now he knows Jet trusts him enough to call him his partner, he feels more confident, so he raises his borrowed ray gun to face the Draculoids across from him.

Fuck, does he wish Jet was doing this instead of him. But there's no time to hand over the weapon – they'll shoot the moment he makes a sudden movement. It's down to him to take down these fuckers.

_It'll be okay... _he reassures himself, _besides, four's not that many to fire at, right...?_

Mikey takes another look at the row of guns pointing at him.

_Well... maybe it is. But still. I need to do this._

"Just surrender now. This is your final warning. It can end peacefully if you allow it. We only wish to question you, I hope you understand."

"Ha! Bullshit. If by interrogation, you mean brainwashing and probably killing, that is." Jet bites back with bitterness in his tone, in his expression, in his eyes. Seems like he's had dealings with this interrogation business before, and he's beyond pissed that they're suggesting it.

"Jet... c'mon, don't let 'em get to you. I've got this." He's trying to reassure him, but on the inside he's just a bundle of nerves who doesn't 'got this'. Not at all.

"Silence, killjoys. This ends now. Offer yourself up for interrogation or prepare for extermination."

"No, _you _fucking shut up!" Mikey hisses. This interrogation talk is getting to Jet even if he's trying to hide it, and it's pissing him off. He doesn't want these bastards hurting him, not now, not ever, and there's an anger burning and building inside his heart, one that's threatening to flip him into overdrive.

"Mikey..." he sounds concerned. He's never seen Mikey get angry; it's not something that tends to happen often. In fact, the kid himself could probably count the number of times he's felt so... furious on one hand – with fingers to spare. He's not sure what's making him feel like this.

Whatever it is, it's making him feel stronger inside. It's making this easier.

"Back the fuck away now, or I shoot you all. Does that make sense to you?"

The Dracs are getting ready to fire, but none of it matters anymore. Mikey's ready for this. It's as if he's been ready his whole life.

_Raise. Aim. Fire._

_Bang._

A masked figure falls to the ground.

_Bang._

Another joins him.

_Bang._

A scream of agony, a clatter of falling weapons.

_**BANG.**_

Silence falls.

"Shit, Mikey... that was fucking amazing." Jet says, sounding awestruck. But Mikey's not sharing the good vibe in the air. No, the anger's gone now, and it's been replaced by a hollowness in the pit of his stomach, not to mention remorse.

"I don't feel fucking amazing. What have I done?" He collapses to his knees, dropping the gun, and Jet rushes over to kneel at his side.

"It's okay," the older man says softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Mikey's skin tingles at the contact – he's still shirtless, and the touch is a shock to his numb system. "It was either us or them. You did the right thing."

"I suppose... but it doesn't make me feel any better. I just killed four guys, Jet. They could've had families, or something, or... gah. I don't know."

"Listen to me, Mikey. Look at me." But he won't look up. He can't. What if he dies from shame or some other bullshit? "I said look at me. Please."

It soon becomes obvious that Mikey would rather jump into a shark-infested swimming pool than look the Killjoy in the eye, so Jet takes a hold of his jaw and forces him to meet his gaze.

"Stop avoiding me. You need to listen." His eyes are darting around as Jet speaks, looking at anything and everything _but _him.

_Ah, yeah, a cactus, let's just focus on that cactus over there... a very nice cactus, that is. Spiky. Green. Cactus-y. I think I'll call this cactus Spiky Green Cactus -_

"_Look. At. Me." _

He says it forcibly this time, more of a demand than a request, and Mikey finally looks at him – fucking hell, Jet's terrifying without even trying. "That's better. I just need you to know that you haven't done _anything _wrong. You're one of the good guys, not those bastards. What you just did there? It was brilliant. Couldn't knock your aim at all. Hell, I don't think I've ever seen _anybody _shoot so damn fast. So stop beating yourself up. You did good, kid."

Mikey nods quickly, trying to take it all in, but his brain's about as useful as a chocolate fireguard right now. Jet's face is close to his, impossibly close, so fucking close he can feel his breath on his skin when he exhales, so close his wild fro of hair is _kinda _trying to eat him alive.

_Close enough to kiss._

The thought's crossed his mind before he can stop it, and he's having a hard time not leaning forward, closing this damn gap between them. He blushes and struggles a little in Jet's grasp – he's gotta move before he does something he'll regret.

Jet finally gets the message and lets go, looking confused and a little bit hurt – he's trying to hide it though, and Mikey can tell, he's good at reading people. The way he's dusting himself down and clearing his throat, the way he's looking away with a blush creeping across his cheeks... it all adds up.

_Wait did he want to...? Did I just... stop him from...? Oh fuck, I don't even know._

Why does everything that happens between them have to end up awkward like this? Mikey's beginning to think they're never gonna have a normal moment together.

Part of him doesn't mind, strangely enough. That part of him is hoping the awkwardness will fade, and lead to something... more. He doesn't even know what he wants. It's not like he knows anything about, well, any of this shit.

The things he's feeling are confusing him.

He wants to be loved. He wants to be accepted. He wants to be something to someone.

But most of all, he wants Jet. And that's what's confusing him the most. Why should he be so hung up on a guy he barely knows? It's not like he'll ever feel the same way, is it?

_**You don't need a rational reason, dear. And what if he actually does? You're naive. And dense. It'd be no surprise if he did and you were just too much of a blockhead to notice.  
><strong>__... Shut up. I don't need your shit right now.  
><em>_**I'm simply stating the facts. You know I'm right. I **_**AM **_**you after all.  
><strong>__I don't care. You're not exactly helping me.  
><em>_**It'll get better in time. You can't give up yet, trust me. Or rather, trust yourself.  
><strong>__... Whatever._

(The author would like to take this opportunity to say that these two dense little men aren't crazy. Not at all. Merely... nope, she's not fooling anybody. They probably are. Isn't everybody, though?

But she digresses.)

Jet's seemingly back to his usual self – blush or no blush – because now he's clicking his fingers in front of Mikey's face and snapping him out of his thoughts.

Fuck... he really needs to stop drifting off.

"Mikey? C'mon, Mikey, we really need to get moving!"

"Wait, what?" he blinks dumbly. That's what he gets for not paying attention...

"We're packing up and leaving. It's not safe here anymore – if they've found us once, they're gonna send more of their little cronies after us. Can't be having that, can we?"

"But -" Mikey opens his mouth to speak, only to have Jet shut him up with a wave of his hand.

"No 'buts', kid. I'm not risking your ass or mine for this shithole we've got here. I've got an old friend who'd be more than happy to put us up for a little while. Don't even worry about that." He smirks slightly, like he's sharing some kind of inside joke with himself.

_And I thought I was the weird one... _he thinks, smiling.

Jet's already on the move when Mikey finally speaks. "So we're just taking what we can and getting the fuck out, then?"

"Pretty much. Come on." He beckons, because the kid ain't moving. Mikey just grins and steps forward to take Jet's hand, testing the waters, so to speak; the other man's not complaining, which makes him squeal a little on the inside. No, instead, Jet's lacing their fingers together, and leading him along without shame.

_Maybe... just maybe, I do have a shot at this. _

The thought makes that smile on his face grow even wider.

It doesn't take them long to get on the road again – to be honest there was hardly anything worth taking with them; just a couple valuables and the odd spare part.

Mikey's been sat in the back for the past hour, while Jet focuses on getting them the hell out of there... and fast, too. A comfortable sort of quiet's settled between them, and it's only broken by the soft sounds coming from Mikey's precious, unplugged bass as he strums a riff he's played a million times before.

He can see Jet swaying slightly to the beat, which just encourages him to play that little bit louder. His fingers slip across the strings easily, with more and more skill the longer he plays for, because he knows what he's doing – he already knows how to walk, he just needs to remember how to run.

"Y'know," Jet says finally, "I used to play the guitar, myself."

Mikey doesn't even look up, managing to multi task. "Really now. Why's that in the past tense, Jet? You stopped playing?"

"Kinda. Lost my guitar, you see. Funnily enough, the guys we're off to see? 's their fault. They owe me a fucking guitar." He sighs dramatically. "Cherished that thing, I did. But no, Fun Ghoul got pissed out of his mind and thought it'd make a good hammer."

_... the fuck?_

"I don't understand that kid sometimes, I swear. Short, whiny, and feisty as fuck. He's about your age, I think."

"I'm sorry man, but... what the heck are you on about?" Mikey's confused, and he puts down his bass so he can pay better attention.

"Oh, it's okay, I wouldn't expect you to understand – s'not like you've met 'em before. Here's a quick rundown, though... their names are Party Poison and Fun Ghoul. A pair of complete nutjobs if I've ever seen any, but they're good at what they do. One's a redhead, you'll spot him from a mile off – that is, if you don't spot his fucking sassiness first." Jet pauses for a second to chuckle a little. The guy he's describing sounds like a real... character, that's for sure.

"He's a good leader though, trust me. Good with art, a bit of an abstract thinker, yeah? And then there's Ghoul. Can't say I know him as well, I've only seen him a couple times – I've pretty much already told you what I know. He's a little scrapper, that one. Likes his beer, and his inks. You should see his tattoos, kid."

He's stopped again, and Mikey thinks he's finished, so he opens his mouth to speak—

"Oh," And he gets cut off. Again. Jet's blushing a little, from what he can see. Looks like he's been thinking about whether or not he should say this. "and, umm... they're together. Like, _together _together. You're alright with that, aren't you?"

Well, shit. He'd forgotten that Jet doesn't know he's gay.

"More than fine." Mikey gives a thumbs-up, because the guy still seems pretty nervous about how he feels about it. "They sound pretty cute together, if ya ask me."

He can see Jet grinning, and he can't help grinning too.

"Well then, that's good to know. I didn't want you going all homophobic on their asses, yeah?"

And here's Mikey thinking he's been practically shitting rainbows since he met the guy. How could he even think he was homophobic?

"Not that I expected you to, of course. Just wanted to make sure. But anyway – we're pretty much there now... I swear, if they've ran off to some other shithole..." Mikey looks out of the window, but he can't see much. Just more of those fucking mountains, stretching on for miles and miles. He doesn't even know what Zone they're in anymore.

The Trans Am grinds to a halt, but he still can't see anything that looks... well, even a bit like a hideout. Either this place is a complete ninja, or Jet's tripping and he's stopped in the wrong place.

Apparently it's the first of the two.

"C'mon, Mikey. We don't have time to sit around all day, y'hear?" Jet's out of the car in a flash, opening Mikey's door for him and extending a hand for him to take.

"Since when did you become a gentleman...?" he asks, eyeing up the hand suspiciously.

Jet just laughs at him and pulls him out of the car anyway, slamming the door shut. "Hey, hey! I do have my moments."

"Whatever. Just lead the way, smartass." Mikey says with a deadly serious tone, which fails miserably at being convincing when he bursts out into giggles.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you about them..."

Turns out there's a trapdoor that leads into the damn place.

A trapdoor. A fucking trapdoor. Why didn't he think of that?

But that's by the by. This place is turning out to be a maze of tunnels and caves and dead ends – it's making Mikey feel lost, not to mention claustrophobic as hell. They've found a few ways back outside, but none of them have lead to the guys they're looking for. Jet's already said he can't remember it ever been this confusing. So encouraging.

"Wait a second, I think I hear something..." Jet mutters, still on high alert. Mikey stops and listens intently, only to hear... moaning?

Second _'...the fuck?' _moment of the day? Check.

"Please tell me I ain't hearing what I'm hearing." He says, blushing. The problem is, if he _is _hearing what he's hearing, and he's not hearing something else and just thinking he's hearing that, which is rather confusing and involves a lot of the word 'hearing' in one sentence, then he shouldn't be finding it this hot. Because fuck, it really is.

"... I think you are hearing that, kid. Suppose this is what I get for not warning them we're coming..." An awkward cough followed by an awkward silence between them. "I guess... we should tell them we're here, then."

"You sure about that? I mean, what if... y'know..." Mikey trails off, his lack of confidence getting the better of him.

"That doesn't matter." Jet winces and his face turns red when a particularly loud whine reaches his ears. "We're here now. I'm not just gonna sit here and let them have their way with each other, huh?"

Mikey just nods, trying his damn hardest not to listen.

"HEY! POISON! GHOUL! QUIT FUCKING AROUND WITH EACHOTHER AND GET YOUR ASSES OUT HERE!"

The sound of someone falling over seems to be their reply, and the pair both snort.

"... WHAT THE FUCK, MAN? JET MOTHERFUCKING STAR, IF THAT'S YOU, I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL BURN YOU."

This one's got attitude – yeah, Mikey's already figured it's Party Poison.

"Talk about timing, eh Jetty?" says the other guy, stepping out to see them in all his short – and very shirtless – glory. His cheeks are flushed and his hair's a mess, but he's wearing a cocky smirk anyway.

This one must be Fun Ghoul.

"Shut it, Ghoul. Don't get all cocky with me, just because I caught you at it. Again, may I add. And could ya please tell your PMS-y bitch of a boyfriend to get out here? I can't be assed with his diva-ishness today."

Mikey wasn't really listening, though. No, he's too busy looking at this Fun Ghoul guy – not in a creepy way, and definitely not in a perverted way, just... curiously. He looks so fucking familiar. Short, pale, long black hair, and a smile he'd recognise anywhere... not to mention his attitude. But... it can't be, can it?

"Yo, Poison. I think you oughta get out here, baby."

"Whatever..." says the redhead, finally joining them. "What do you want, Jet? You interrupted some good shit there, and I ain't happy."

"We got found, Party. You were our only option." Blunt. To the point. Something Jet seems a bit too good at.

Poison blinks. "Seriously? Damn it, you're losing your touch honey." He smirks. "But yeah, I suppose you can crash here... seeing as we still owe you and you're too much of an ass to ever let that go."

"I thought I'd get a good answer." Jet grins, the tension in his body leaving him now he knows they're safe.

"Who's this, then?" Fun Ghoul gestures to Mikey, and it looks as if he's on the same wavelength as the kid.

"Oh, umm, hey guys." He stutters out, cursing his stupid awkwardness. "The name's Mikey. 'm training to be a Killjoy, like you guys."

"Holy shit... no fuckin' way!" Ghoul's eyes widen in shock. "Mikey? Mikey Way? From Battery City?"

"Frank?"

The realisation hits them both like a ton of bricks, and before they even realise it they're hugging with tears in their eyes.

It's a reunion of best friends that were estranged for what felt like forever. And damn, nothing can top this right now.


	7. Caught In The Act

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Chapter 6<strong>** – Caught In The Act**

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey), background Frerard (PP/FG), Anarchy/Graffiti  
><strong>Rating: <strong>R/15 for sexual situations.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_Plenty_ of lovely foul language, mild violence, terror, mentions of past abuse, and slash.  
><strong>POV: <strong>3rd Person. POV switches around quite a bit this time.

**Chapter Summary: **When your best friend shows up after you were convinced he was dead for years, he obviously has a lot of fucking explaining to do.

* * *

><p>Jet and Poison have managed to sneak off already by the time Mikey's finished crying from fucking happiness. But he doesn't even care. Not one bit.<p>

He's found his best friend again… the friend he'd thought he'd lost. He'd been convinced Frank had died, until now. Been ghosted by those bastards at BLIND.

Apparently not. What the fuck is going on? Frank should be dead. He's gotta be tripping, dreaming, some crazy shit like that. Either way, he wants to know everything. How Frank's here. Why Frank's here. Where the hell he's been all this time.

"Hey, Mikey…" Frank – or maybe he should just call him Fun Ghoul now? – says, patting him on the shoulder comfortingly. "Don't cry! S'only me, man. I know I'm an ugly fucker, but geez, I didn't think my face could make people cry."

The little joke to go with the grin on his face calms Mikey down a little, to the point where he can actually make words that don't go something a little like, "skjfdaklsjfaslkfjdklsjf" again.

"Wh-what… how… why… fucking missed you." Well, that pretty much sums up his thoughts in complete accuracy.

"Shit… 'm sorry Mikey. I know I've got a lot of explaining to do. I know that. But I don't even know where to start." Ghoul runs his hands through his hair, obviously frustrated with himself.

"Anywhere would be nice… I need to know what happened to you, Frank. It don't matter to me how you start, where you start. Please. I've been looking for you for fucking ever. You were my best friend – hell, you still are." He mutters with a little more composure, not knowing whether to be angry or not.

"You really wanna know, little M?" That nickname reminds him of the old days. Before everything got a little crazy. "It's a long ass story…"

He's trying to put Mikey off, but the kid sees that little gleam in his eye. He wants to spill everything, because he knows he can. No, he hasn't changed a bit – all his habits, the way he acts, even the way he looks (the little fucker hasn't aged a bit!), it's the same – and in a way, it's kind of comforting.

"Just tell me, dude. I can tell you want to."

The grin on Fun Ghoul's face grows even wider, and he rubs his hands together in excitement.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn ya!"

—-

"So, who's the new guy? You two seem pretty… close." Poison says, trying to sound innocent but falling at the first hurdle. Flat on his face. Head over heels.

Going straight in for the kill – typical. They're barely even out of earshot and he's already up to his old tricks again.

"A new recruit to the cause," Jet replies casually, keeping his cool. "and I can honestly say I have no idea what you're talking about."

"So you haven't fucked yet?"

_… since when has he been so accurate, anyway?_

"You've got exactly five seconds to explain yourself before my fist reacquaints itself with your face."

He's always been like this: way too interested in Jet's love life, asking all the right questions but somehow managing to push all the wrong buttons. As much as he tries to deny it, though, Poison's his closest friend. They've been through some tough shit together, and seen each other at their worst…

… it just so happens that the sassy redhead's convinced he can be some kind of 'relationship guru' now. Even though he's a bit shit at the whole business of romance himself. Jet supposes it's what he gets for showing up all pissed off and drunk and crying to him about one of his many failed attempts at dating. Well.

"Oh, come on, Jetty. Don't hit me. 'm just pointing out the obvious…" he smirks.

"Fuck off. You don't know what you're talking about…"

"Really, man? Really? I've seen you two in the same room for all of five seconds and I could SEE the damn spark between ya. Stop playing dumb on me." Poison's definitely on a roll today, and Jet's not even sure how to respond to that.

"… shut up." He finally mutters in defeat, leaning back against the rock wall and looking away.

"I KNEW IT." Party says cockily, throwing his hands up in the air. "Am I right, or am I right?"

"You're an arrogant little ass, that's what you are." Still on the defensive, unsurprisingly enough. But the redhead just waves away the insult with his hand.

"Woah, easy tiger. I'm only pointing out what I can see. Now, I ain't particularly bothered how you met, where you met, any of that." He sighs, obviously thinking of the shit that's gone down in the past. "I just… I don't know. I just don't want you to get hurt again. Emphasis on again."

Jet's pretty surprised by how… gentle Poison's being. This isn't like him at all. He'd expected him to be bitchy about it; it's like something's changed in him.

"You seem different, Party. This got something to do with Fun Ghoul?"

"Stop changing the subject." He snaps, his face going as red as his hair. Well, that all but confirms it then… "Has anything actually happened between ya, then?"

"No!" he says a bit too quickly, and Poison just gives him a quick 'quit-bullshitting-me' sort of look. "Well nothing… major, anyway."

_**Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, dear.  
><strong>Piss off._  
><em><strong>Because apparently stripping him off, hugging him constantly and holding his hand is 'nothing major'. Outstanding. I'd give you a medal for your flawless logic, but sadly I'm just your conscience.<strong>_

Jet blushes furiously, which Poison picks up on. Again. Perceptive bastard, this one is.

"Ooooh, I think somebody's lying to me!"

"I'm being serious, Party. Nothing's happened." He frowns, refusing to spill anything. "And it probably never will."

"Don't be such a downer, for god's sake, man. Your melodrama's giving me a headache." Dramatically, Poison swipes a hand over his forehead, groaning in mock pain, and slumps back against the wall. Diva-style. And here's Jet thinking he'd changed a little. Not a chance. "Just listen to me. Don't give up on this kid yet. He seems… I don't know, good for you. You say I've changed? Look at yourself for a change, Jet. The last time we met, you'd have punched the shit out of me for saying the stuff I have today. But now, you seem a bit more controlled."

Jet just blinks at him, thinking about it.

"I can't say I have a fucking clue if it's anything to do with him." He continues, not even stopping to let Jet react. "Don't know the guy yet. And by the looks of it, you don't know as much as you'd like to know about him either. But what I do know his, he was looking at you like some love sick puppy when you weren't paying attention. Biting his lip. Not giving a fuck about what I was saying, just looking at you."

"He… was?" That's all Jet can really spit out after that, and Party Poison just tuts his disapproval.

"Would I lie to you about this shit?"

"I suppose you've got a point. But I can never tell if you're bullshitting me or not…" he gives in, punching Party lightly on the shoulder – and getting a girly little yelp back.

"Hey! That was unnecessary!" he whines, but Jet just chuckles at him. "I'm just saying, man. Don't give up on this one yet. At least get to know him a bit more first. Just because you've had bad luck in the past – drunk one night stands, rejection, being dumped, ending up with an asshole…"

"Wow. That's fuckin' encouraging to say the least." Jet says sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not finished yet, shut it! Look, all that shit's in your past. This is the present. You've got a shot if you just roll with it. Believe you can. Believe that the feeling's mutual." He finishes, flashing his best smile.

"You really have changed, Party… you've softened up a little. 's not a bad thing, though."

"Meh." He just shrugs, trying to look like he doesn't care – he's failing though, because his face is turning as red as his hair. "I suppose I've changed a bit lately. It's Fun Ghoul, man. He's just… he's made me a better person, Jetty."

Jet Star smirks at him. "Aww. Such a cute little couple!"

"Piss off, man! I'm tryna be nice here!"

"Okay, okay, I'll keep my trap shut. But only if you show me around. I swear to god this place has changed." It's a good deal, really.

"A'ight. It has gotten a bit bigger, I suppose. We've picked up a few strays along the way, you see." He shrugs it off like it's no big deal.

"A few strays, eh?"

"Yeah. Trio of girls we picked up on the road a few months back… their names're Apathetic Anarchy, Graffiti Feline and Benzedrine Pump. They insist we call 'em Anarchy, Graffiti and Benze, though. Ever heard of 'em?"

Jet shakes his head. "Can't say I have. I'm just wondering how they put up with you two and your… antics." he snickers, his meaning showing through pretty clearly."

"Oh god. Don't get me started on that." Poison shudders. "They think it's hot. I've heard them giggling about it, man. It's… different, to say the least. They still earn their keep. And it's better than them being bitchy about it, right…?"

No matter how confident he's trying to seem, it's obvious he still can't convince himself that that's a good thing.

And Jet can't help but laugh at him.

"Shut uuuuuup!" He's on the verge of a diva-fit here, but Jet just can't stop laughing.

"Party, seriously. Just roll with it. It's not like you can question female logic, is it? Girls have never made any sense, anyway."

"… Fair point. Now come on, I'm practically dying of boredom standing around here. Plus, my ass has gone numb. Let's get moving."

Jet opens his mouth to make a witty little comeback, but Poison's already strutting away.

_… shit._

—-

"Goddamn, where to start…" Fun Ghoul says for about the fifth time already, tapping his fingers against the rock. He's in one of those hyperactive, repetitive, annoying-to-most moods, and he still can't be assed to put his shirt back on. But Mikey's not particularly bothered about any of that. He just wants to know what he's missed.

Preferably before he becomes ancient, rolls over and dies.

"The beginning would be nice, Frankie." He mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming already. As much as he loves Frank, the guy could test the patience of a bloody saint.

"I'll just improvise, whatever. Don't go all old man on me, Mikes!" the dark haired, little man sighs dramatically, swooning backwards and almost falling off his rocky seat.

'Don't go all old man on me'? He feels like one already anyway, he's been waiting for fucking ages.

"Okay, here goes. As you know, they called me up not long after I'd turned 17. Shame, really. I'd had a good party, a good couple of months after it… and then they drop this shit on me. Came out of nowhere.

Obviously, I didn't wanna go. Wasn't stupid. We knew what went on, didn't we? But mom wouldn't hear any of it. To be honest, I think they paid her on the side, because she was more than happy to kick me to the curb. I know she didn't like me, but fuck. Never expected that.

They carted me off in some shitty bus or other. Can't be assed to remember that in detail. All I know is, we drove straight through the slum districts and straight into preppy-asshole central. I got dropped off at some nameless lab on the outskirts of the city. Pretty far out from anything else that looked important – not gonna lie, I was fuckin' terrified.

I was in a group with a couple other kids my age. Some of 'em were like me, knew what was going on. The others… well, I couldn't help but feel sorry for them, y'know? They didn't have a clue; thought they were there for real. The looks on their faces… they were excited, man. I didn't have the heart to tell them what was really going on."

His face has fallen a little, and he looks guilty, even though it's obvious he couldn't have done anything to help.

"But that's not important." Ghoul forces a smile onto his face again, carrying on. "They were nice to us for a few days, I guess. Lured some of us into a false sense of security. Hell, I know it didn't work on me… and I think they noticed that. The bigwig scientists started trying to drug us up with all the shit they'd be putting out on the shelves soon. But before they even started on you with that crazy shit, you got turned into a fucking… robot, I don't know how to put it, man. Our hair got shaved and cut off, even dyed back to its natural colour. Any piercings we had got took out. And to top it off, we were all in a fucking terrible uniform. Eurgh.

We had two choices – we either laid down like dead dogs and took the medicine like BLIND's little bitches, or we got forced to take it anyway. Great outlooks, right? If you didn't just grin and bear it… they… they took you to this… fucking scary room." His voice was cracking with fear, as if the memories alone could hurt him.

_Shit… that must have been horrible for him._

"It was fully white. Blindingly white. Couldn't tell where the floor ended and the walls began. All I could see was a metal table in the middle – it stood out like a sore thumb. They tied me to it, slapped me around a little, then had their way with the drugs… I was a fucking guinea pig. I never wanna go through that again. No, I don't want that to happen to ANYONE anymore."

Now he's burying his face in his hands, and Mikey's sure he's never seen him get this upset before. Especially not with this degree of fear. Frank's always been happy-go-lucky, a little firecracker, never sad or down. But now…

"Frank… It's okay, man. You're not there anymore. They can't hurt you. You got out, right?" Mikey says softly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I got out." He mutters, composing himself. "Well, I didn't get out by myself… Party Poison broke me out of there. With style."

Mikey can see the adoration on his face, mixed with what looks like love, too. He grins – he can still read Frank like an open book. "Really now?"

"Yeah… him and a couple of others broke in and got me out – I was the last one standing outta that lot. If they hadn't shown up then, I think I'd have gone down too. But they pulled their ray guns out – yeah, I think Jet was there too, I don't know – kicked some ass, hauled me out of there. It's all kinda a blur from there."

"Holy shit, man… you've been through a lot." Mikey steps forward to hug Frank again, still fucking glad to have his best friend back.

"I know. But I try not to think about it now. I started a new life with Poison, and I'm not letting anyone take that away from me, man…"

Awkwardly, he clears his throat, realising that what he's just said probably sounds a little cheesy. "Umm, right. Excuse what I just said. I think I'll just go and… make a campfire now. Campfires are cool!"

And he's darted off at a speed only a midget can reach, out of sight before Mikey can even start to laugh his ass off.

—-

Turns out Fun Ghoul did get round to making that campfire.

Mikey had spent about half an hour looking for him after he'd skipped away. Which was only right, considering the place was a fucking maze. They'd started the little 'party' without him too, and they just laughed when he showed up, pissed off and ever so slightly socially awkward (business as usual, really).

The four of them talked long into the night, with a few beers and the stars for company. For Jet and Poison, it was just like old times; for Fun Ghoul and Mikey, it was something new, and something they could definitely get used to.

At some point along the line, a slightly tipsy Mikey either passed out or just plain fell asleep – it was impossible to tell – and landed ever so conveniently on Jet's lap.

And that's where he is now.

While Poison and Ghoul creep away, giggling over their shoulders at the wild-haired Killjoy they'd left to his fate.

It's Fun Ghoul's plan, in all fairness. He knows a little… something about drunk-sleeping-Mikey, and in a stroke of sheer brilliance, he convinced his boyfriend to abandon Jet and leave him at Mikey's mercy.

Oh god… what happens now? Jet thinks, flipping off the scheming duo as they run away. But he couldn't really complain. He was alone with Mikey, who looked ever so slightly like a kitten curled up on his lap, and it was way more peaceful than it would be with the added company.

He sighs and leans back a little, getting as comfortable as he can without waking the sleeping man resting on him. Without even stopping to think about it, Jet brings a hand down to gently stroke Mikey's hair, smiling as he sees him shiver a little and lean into the touch.

He's beautiful without even making an effort.

They stay like this for what seems like forever, completely calm in the firelight. That is, until Mikey starts to mutter and move in his previously undisturbed sleep.

"…mmf…"

Jet tilts his head to the side, confused, and he leans closer, thinking he's heard wrong.

"Jet…" Mikey moans out softly, gripping the leg of the other man's jeans tightly, his hands balled into fists.

He blinks down at Mikey. Shit, is he… actually… what the fuck. As if to answer his thoughts, Mikey moans again, shifting further up his lap.

"M-mikey, are you okay?" he bites his lip, not caring that it's a completely pointless question.

"Jet, oh god, please…" Mikey gasps with his mouth agape and his eyes still shut. His nails drag lightly down Jet's lap as he pulls himself up sluggishly to sit fully on him, seemingly oblivious to everything but his dreams when his head lolls forward to collide with Jet's shoulder.

_Well this is awkward._  
><em><strong>Shut up and enjoy it, for fuck's sake.<br>**Stop telling me—_

But Jet's coherent thoughts cease in an instant when Mikey bites down hard on his neck, whining against his skin, and he can't help but whine as well. How the hell is he accomplishing this in his sleep? Suddenly, Jet gets the feeling that Party and Ghoul left them alone for a reason…

Not that there's any time to really think about that. Mikey's wrapping his arms loosely around Jet's shoulders, still attacking him with his teeth, and grinding lightly against him, and fuck, as weird as it might look, it feels good. Jet can feel his cheeks heat up and his jeans getting tighter, the noises and gasps coming from Mikey just fuelling the fire.

"Oh god, don't stop baby…" Mikey whispers huskily against his ear, leaning forward to the point where he knocks Jet backwards. It sends both of them crashing to the ground with a loud thump, but Mikey's stillasleep.

Jet has no fucking idea what to do.

On the one hand, he had a very horny, drunk, sleeping, skinny young man – who he just happened to have a very big crush on – on top of him, which could only be a good thing.

But then, what if he woke up? What if it made things awkward between them? What if they never spoke again? What if—

"M-mikes..!"

Mikey seems all too happy to cut Jet off again by digging his knee into Jet's crotch, and that cuts off any worries he has left. Pleasure mingled with a bit of pain shoots up his spine – he can't stop himself, he has to feel more. Caring whether Mikey wakes up's just a distant memory now.

The kid leans down, lazily nipping a line up his jaw and still grinding against him slowly. Jet bucks upwards, desperate for more – but it's so fucking difficult when Mikey can't respond. Fuck, it's like he's doing this to him on purpose, he swears. Holding back, teasing him, driving him fucking mad with need. He feels so close already, it doesn't even make sense anymore.

Hell, nothing really does. This shouldn't be happening, but it is. And damn, it's good.

But all good things come to an end, don't they? And some in ways that we'd never expect…

"OH. MY. GOD. GUYS, COME LOOK AT THIS. QUICK, OR YOU'LL FUCKING MISS IT."

Jet's head snaps up to see a girl standing there, looking scarily happy about what she's walked into.

_Is that…?_

Yep, how convenient – it's one of the Killjoys he'd been introduced to earlier on Poison's little 'tour' of the place. Benzedrine, if he remembers rightly… And if she's here, that can only mean…

_Oh shit, here come the terrible trio._

Removing the still moaning Mikey from him as gently as he could, Jet's feeling ever so slightly embarrassed. Well, embarrassed is probably the world's biggest understatement. He's a bit past that point. Burying his head in the sand and never surfacing seems like a perfectly good alternative right now.

Anarchy and Graffiti have both shown up, obviously excited to know what Benze is making a fuss about. And by the looks of it they've already figured out what's going on, if the extreme giggling fits are anything to go by.

"Hey, don't worry." Benze says, trying to contain her laughter but failing miserably. "We heard you from a mile away."

"Your secret's safe with us, though!" Anarchy pipes up before hiding her blushing face in Graffiti's shoulder, still shaking with the giggles.

Graffiti wraps an arm around the practically hysterical girl leaning on her, looking over at the little tangled heap that is Jet and Mikey. "Sounds like you had fun. You should just get together already, for god's sake." She smirks. Jet just looks back, flustered.

"I swear… if anyone finds out about this…"

"What did we just say? We won't tell anyone. We're just glad we found you…" Benze steps over with a huge-ass grin on her face and pats Jet lightly on the head, hoping it'll reassure him (but secretly hoping it'll embarrass him even more).

"R-right. Especially not Mikey."

"Especially not Mikey." Graffiti laughs. "What do you take us for, Jet? We're on your side."

"That we are. My advice? Make a move. When he's awake, I mean. I'm pretty sure he won't appreciate being sleep-molested anymore…" Seems like Anarchy's composed herself enough to make words again. It's amazing what actually breathing properly can do.

"Sh-shut up, this proves nothing…"

"Right…" They all say sarcastically, right on cue.

"It really doesn't!"

"Look, Jet…" says Graffiti, a lot calmer now. "You don't have to lie to us. Hell, we'll help get you two together if you need it…"

"NO!" Jet cuts her off, knowing that letting those three help'll just result in a disaster. A comical disaster, but a disaster nonetheless. "Look, fine, I admit it. I like him. But I'd rather do this alone."

_And put it off… and put it off some more… maybe just play it safe and never say a thing._

"Aww, there we go. We'll be watching from a distance, just so you know. And we'll try not to get in the way." Benze snorts at this, as if she knows that's complete bullshit. "We'll leave you with Mikey now, I think we need to get this one inside before she falls asleep on the spot. Again."

"Shut up, honey…" Anarchy yawns, back to leaning on Graffiti's shoulder. She reaches down to lace their fingers together, barely able to keep her eyes open.

"See ya, Jet. Good luck with Mikey. We're waiting for some good news, y'know…!" Benze calls over her shoulder, leading the two girls in front away.

_Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit. Why does everyone have to know this shit? It's just gonna end badly._

Jet waits until he's sure the terrible trio have left before he moves again. They're not bad kids, he knows that. They just want to help. But it still makes him… uncomfortable that they know.

He looks down at Mikey, who's sleeping peacefully now. Fuck, this is too awkward to handle. He hasn't got a clue what to do next.

"I'll figure something out…" Jet looks up to the stars, thinking they'll somehow magically give him a solution, but the only response he gets is the sound of the night breeze whistling past.

Sighing, he settles down, hoping he can sleep. Tomorrow's another day. He'll sort it out then.

Or at least he hopes he can.


	8. Awkward Moments & Missed Chances

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Chapter 7 – Awkward Moments &amp; Missed Chances<strong>

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, aka Ray/Mikey (Rikey), background Frerard (PP/FG), Anarchy/Graffiti  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13 (for now)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_Plenty_ of lovely foul language, mild violence; mild slash and femmslash.  
><strong>POV: <strong>3rd Person omniscient, focusing on the thoughts of different characters throughout.

**Disclaimer: **I own fuck all, except for the concept. And the stuff I write. And my own Killjoy, I suppose. So maybe not fuck all... but the point still stands. All people belong to themselves and the band is signed to the label, blah blah blah... This story contains shit you may not like - and if you _do_ happen not to like it, just calmly press the 'back' button. :3

**Chapter Summary: **In which Jet is an awkward fucker, Mikey somehow becomes even more awkward, and Anna is getting increasingly worse at writing chapter summaries. Hurray!

* * *

><p>People say that the morning after is always awkward. But what Jet's feeling isn't just 'awkwardness' – it's a mixture of shame, embarrassment, and the burning desire to curl up in the corner until the world forgets he exists. A lovely mix of emotion, to say the least.<p>

_Does what happened even _have _a morning after? _Jet thinks, grimacing as he takes another bite of Power Pup from the can in his hand – which is basically Battery City's fancily named dog food, and the most disgusting shit his taste buds have ever suffered. The trouble is, it's one of the only safe things to eat, whether the Killjoys like it or not.

Jet's only distraction is to delve into his thoughts, overanalysing everything that's been happening lately... well, last night, to be specific. Everything's getting overanalysed, and to be honest, he hasn't got a clue which one's worse: the food he's forcing down, or his paranoia.

_I mean... it's not like we actually... actually... fucked or anything, is it? I'm not in the wrong, am I? I can't be. And if he never finds out, well... no harm done. I hope... _He can't put what he's feeling into words, because it's impossible to know where to start. It's like he's fighting a battle with a conscience, one that he's losing. Which sucks a hell of a lot.

Jet _knows _that he'd wanted Mikey last night. Knows that he already wanted him, and that want's turning into a burning need way too quickly for comfort. (Which also sucks a hell of a lot.)

Part of him – the part that pretty much laughs in the face of common sense and has a taste for pancakes – wants to believe that Mikey wants him, too. But then there's his more rational side, and that part of him kinda gets a kick out of taking his hope and stomping it into the ground, no matter what Poison said yesterday.

He sighs loudly, momentarily forgetting that he's sat at a table... surrounded by guys who're giving him weird looks. Not to mention the three girls sat a little further away, who look like they're about to burst out into a giggling fit any second now.

"You alright, Jet...?" says Mikey, sounding concerned. They haven't even spoken yet this morning, because Jet can't bring himself to do it – hell, he can't even look him in the eye.

"'m fine, don't worry." He mutters back with a little fake smile, trying to resist the temptation to punch Ghoul and Poison in the face when he hears them snigger.

Silence falls over the room again, and it's definitely not the comfortable kind. Nope, it's the shitty, tense kind that's just _begging _to be broken. Y'know, before someone dies from the pressure in the atmosphere. Or dies of boredom – one or the other.

No prizes for guessing who does.

"Yo, Jet." Fun Ghoul shoves his empty Power Pup can aside, smirking and watching the crazy-haired Killjoy lift his head to grunt in acknowledgement. "Where'd ya get those hickeys?"

_... S – h – i – t._

Party snorts like a pig, clapping his hand over his mouth, Mikey just stares at him in shock, and Ghoul just sits there like a smug little bastard, obviously enjoying the embarrassment he's making.

_I could _really _do with a way to wipe that cocky little grin off his face right about now..._

... but pulling his collar up and stuttering out an excuse works just as well, yeah? "N-nowhere. I don't even know what you're talkin' about..."

"Come on Jet, there's no point in hiding 'em. They're redder than my _hair, _for god's sakes. And we'd love to know where they came from, hmm?" Poison chimes in, the amusement in his voice shining through clear as day. Looks like they want to make him squirm – they're trying to get an answer out of him, even though they already know.

Seeing as they were the ones who dropped him in all this shit face-first.

Jet makes the very wise decision to get the fuck out of their before this diabolical duo tests his patience any further – not that he has any left to test. "Y'know what, guys? Whether they're there or not, it's _kinda _none of your fuckin' business." He says a little too nonchalantly, feeling proud that he's disappointed them by not reacting.

"Aww, come on man. At least give us a hint about where you got marks like _that_!_" _Fun Ghoul whines, exaggerating his point by miming claws with his hands and growling. Geez, sometimes Jet's sure that that guy's seriously got the mind of a five year old. It really wouldn't surprise him.

"How's about... no." Jet flips him off, grinning, before turning to look at Mikey (probably for the first time today). "Yo, kid, you up to doin' some training today?"

_Complete subject changes... saving the day, one avoided awkward moment at a time!_

Mikey seems to catch the drift that he wants to vacate the room ASAP, nodding quickly. "Sure thing, Jet. I mean, it's not like I've gotten far, with all this running away shit that's gone on... better to start while I can, huh?"

"Hey, running away's a good lesson to learn! There's a lot of it to be done in this line of work." He retorts, acting mortally offended as he makes his way over to the door.

Mikey just giggles at him.

"Right, pretty sure I've figured that much out for myself. And I guess I'll be doing a lot more of it in the future?"

"Basically, yeah. But there's no shame in running if it saves your scrawny ass, right?" Jet's got a huge smile on his face now. He can't really help but be happy around Mikey, no matter what paranoia's nagging at his mind. If he's that comfortable around him still, there's no way he knows what happened.

He fucking hopes so, anyway. If he could fully convince himself that the kid has no idea, it'd put his thoughts at rest, to say the least.

Mikey's caught up with him now, leaning against the doorframe and pouting. "My ass is _not _scrawny, thank you very much." Looks like it's his turn to be overdramatic...

"Whatever. Keep telling yourself that, scrawny ass."

"Well fuck you, fat ass!" Mikey punches him lightly in the stomach and laughs before leaving, catching Jet off-guard – he has to scramble out of the room to find him again.

They may or may not have forgotten they had an audience.

Poison and Ghoul sit there, their eyes on the space Mikey and Jet have just vacated, both riding the same train of thought –

"They're SO into each other." They blurt out in unison, and the moment calls for a huge high five.

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><p>The three female Killjoys – Benzedrine, Anarchy and Graffiti – have developed almost ninja-like skills in their time at this little 'base' (what it actually is, they haven't got a bloody clue. So for now, it's a base. There have been numerous arguments between the three about this already, and peace was only reached when Fun Ghoul stepped in and forced them to play Rock, Paper, Scissors over it. Don't question the power of 'best two outta three'). Together, they can sneak around unseen: as proved last night when they managed to find Jet and Mikey in a very compromising situation... jackpot.<p>

And now they've managed to escape the so –called dining area from without Party Poison or Ghoul even noticing in the slightest. They've collectively come to the conclusion that either they're completely awesome and sneaky as fuck, or the guys are just blind and kinda stupid. Possibly both.

The first sounds a hell of a lot cooler, though.

Now the trio have retreated to Benze's room, perching on the end of her bed (seeing as the whole damn place is filled with only the bare necessities – no chairs!). Well, Benze isn't exactly _perched – _rather, lounging back casually with her arm draped over her face. Her expression's lined with concern and a bit of pity.

"Argh, they're so fuckin'_ blind_. How the heck are we gonna get 'em together if they can't even see the signs?"

"I don't even know, B. It's a fact of life – guys are dense. Just seems that these two are worse than usual..." says Graffiti.

Anarchy buries her head in her hands. "They're so bloody cute together, though! It'll drive me fucking mental if they don't get together... argh." She sighs, and Graffiti wraps an arm around her to comfort her.

She looks up at her. "We _are_ gonna help them along, right?"

"Of course we are, honey. We'll come up with something between the three of us. We always do, right?"

"We're just fucking ace plan makers, hell yeah." B chimes in.

"See? Nothing to worry about. We'll get 'em together."

"That's good to hear..." Anarchy smiles, leaning in to capture Graffiti's lips gently and pulling her closer.

Benze rolls her eyes. "Y'know, as adorable as that is, you're still sat on my bed. Bastards."

They both respond by flipping her off over their shoulders, like complete bosses.

* * *

><p>"So, what're we doing today? I ain't going through a repeat of last time..." Mikey says, shuddering at the thought.<p>

_I mean... I'm not in a rush to run around killing people again._

Jet cringes as well. "I know what you mean. But as good as your aim is now, there's no harm in practicing. It won't take too long, I swear. And then we can move on to a few little ground rules, yeah?"

"Killjoys have rules? That's news to me, man." he mutters, squinting as the light of the sun hits him square in the face.

"Well, they ain't _rules_, as such. I guess you could call them 'Ways to Avoid Getting Your Ass Fried and Served on a Platter to Better Living Industry.' Yeah. It'd make a good title for a book, now I think about it..." Jet shrugs, his voice trailing off as he imagines the finished product.

"Hey! Earth to Jetty!" Mikey snaps his fingers in front of Jet's starry-eyed face. "Stop imagining your next bestseller – I'm gonna roast to death out here."

"Sorry, man. But Jetty, eh? I've not heard that one for a while."

_Oh god, I didn't mean to say THAT out loud...  
><em>_**Better keep that one in your dreams where it belongs, huh?  
><strong>__I thought I told you to LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!  
><em>_**Like I'd do that. I'm your conscience; it's my job to taunt you. Now excuse me while I grab some metaphorical popcorn.**_

"Well, err... it got your attention, right? Served its purpose." He stammers out an improvised excuse, trying to sound casual, and hopes for the best.

"Right, 'course."

It's obvious that Jet isn't convinced at all, judging by the smirk on his face (which Mikey finds himself extremely attracted to, to say the least).

"So, we gonna do anything, or?" Mikey prompts him, trying to change the subject – only to find he's made a double entendre. He's making a bad habit out of doing that...

"Erm, yeah." Jet's eyes widen, his face taking on a hint of read as he launches into a full on ramble. "C'mon, they've got a little target range set up out here. At least, they had one last time. Fuck knows what they've changed since, though."

_Shit, I think he saw what I did there._

They reach an area dotted with wooden poles after a minute or two of awkward silence, which is starting to happen a bit too often for either of their likings. Atop each pole sits a Draculoid mask, looking down and judging them both in a really creepy sort of way.

"That's just fuckin' weird." Mikey blurts out without meaning to, and now he's shitting himself, thinking he'll have said something that offends the 'Killjoy culture' that he knows fuck all about.

Jet just shrugs, much to his relief. "I know. Weird, but effective, so ya can't exactly complain."

In a split second, so fast that Mikey's barely even blinked, he's pulled his ray gun from its holster, firing at the 'targets' with a cocky smile and a little flourish.

_What a show off. _

But Mikey can't exactly deny he's impressed, because _fuck, _that's skilled.

(And hot. Not that he'll admit he thinks that.)

Jet catches Mikey staring at him in awe and his cocky smile just grows wider, a glint of pride shining in his eyes – some people would pass him off as an arrogant bastard straight away if they saw it, but Mikey finds it... kind of endearing. He can't help but smile back at him.

"Ready to have a go, kid?" he says, and it sounds like he's almost _daring _him to try and beat him. Mikey's all too happy to oblige.

Taking the raygun from him, and blatantly ignoring his snide little comment of "don't aim it at yourself this time", he looks down the sight. With a deep breath, he aims.

_This shit should be easy if I just take my time._

Gently and almost tentatively, he pulls the trigger, watching with bated breath while a ray of light darts across the space between him and the target... and hits it dead on.

_Sweet._

His confidence boosted, Mikey works himself into a rhythm of point and shoot – it gets to the point where he doesn't even need to think anymore. The technique's second nature.

Mikey can feel Jet watching him intently, and he can't help but feel proud of himself for once. At least he can't fuck this up, right?

"That was... wow. I was impressed last time, but now I'm pretty sure you've got a talent for this. That was fuckin' fantastic, kid." Jet finally says when Mikey blows the smoulders and smoke from the top of the raygun.

"Fantastic enough for you to stop calling me kid?" Mikey responds without really thinking; his nerves are still tingling with adrenaline, so to be honest, he doesn't think he can be held accountable for the shit he says right now.

Jet blinks at him in shock, because he never would've expected Mikey to be so... self-assured. "Actually... yeah." He smiles, reaching into his jacket pocket, and Mikey just looks at him with mixed feelings of excitement and apprehension. "I think I may have something that's a bit better for ya than that, y'know..."

He leans in a little closer – Mikey feels his breath hitch in his throat.

_Just... what is he doing? And why can't I breathe?_

But he doesn't exactly do what Mikey expects; instead, with a grin, presents him with a raygun of his own. Vibrant red, and inscribed with the words _**'KOBRA KID'**_.

Strangely enough, Mikey's not even disappointed. In fact, he's thrilled, and he's fucking honoured. The weapon feels light in his hands... almost as if it was _made _for him.

"I've been keeping that little beauty close at hand for a while. Y'know, for someone who deserves it." Jet says softly, acting in a gentle sort of way that Mikey's pretty sure he hasn't seen from him before.

"Thank you... that's all I can really say. Thank you." On impulse, he steps forward to embrace Jet, and he feels a surge of warmth and security when a pair of strong arms wrap around him.

"You've got a lot to learn, Kobra Kid... but I know you're up to this."

The use of his new name makes him jump a little, and he looks up to see Jet smiling down at him. His own smile grows even wider, if that's even physically possible.

_It's a new beginning, I suppose._

And a fucking awesome new beginning at that.


	9. Interlude I

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Interlude I<strong>

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><p>Korse walks with his head held high through the whitewashed halls of Better Living Industry's main headquarters. After all, he has every right to be confident – he's the pride of the company, second in command to only the Reverends themselves. He enjoys his work, unlike most of his underlings; the reasons as to why that is have always been a mystery to him.<p>

_The view of the city today is most delightful_, he thinks with a smirk. _As grey and silent as ever._

The state of Battery City has remained quite constant since the inception of BLind in the latter half of 2016: an imbalance of power - and an almost complete control of the citizens - has lead to a subdued sort of peace.

Korse thrives in these conditions, as do his superiors, and it's not as if the _scum_ that populate the rest of the city have any say in the matter. The rich have power, the poor keep quiet... life as it should be!

Yes, all is well in the life of this Exterminator. The rewards are rich, and he enjoys taking down the people who get in his way. It's especially fun to torture them beforehand; the more pain he inflicts, the more satisfying the whole process becomes.

There are few opportunities for him to just sit and bask in the glow of the tyranny these days – those forsaken Killjoys seem to be multiplying like rabbits, which is a minor annoyance. He often finds himself on the warpath with his elite S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W unit, and admittedly, the thrill of the chase is more than worth the lack of rest.

It just so happens this is one of those rare days where he _does_ get a chance to rest, and anyone who disrupts is likely to be met with extreme contempt –

"Exterminator Korse. A word, if you please."

- ah. Perhaps he'll make an exception in this case.

"Of course, sire." That's the one thing he really dislikes about working here – having to respect authority. One wrong word, and there's every chance he'll be sent down to slave away on the production line... not particularly a good idea.

"We've received word that one of your Draculoid units has been eliminated in Zone 7. Were you aware of this?" the man, who happens to Reverend Vornn, says with an unreadable tone and an equally unreadable expression.

"I... I'm afraid I wasn't aware of this, sire."

"A shame indeed. We've also received word that this is the doing of the killjoy 'Jet Star'."

Korse looks through his mental catalogue of killjoys – it's difficult to remember so many insignificant names and faces. "... The one with the overgrown hair, sire?"

"That would be the one. But it seems he wasn't alone, and this is unacceptable. He is a nuisance enough alone, let alone with another ally. We have tasked you with finding and capturing this unknown accomplice." The Reverend watches with the slightest hint of amusement as Korse's face lights up. "However, we do not wish for him or her to be harmed just yet. We have our reasons."

"It will be done, sire." Korse says with a hint of disappointment at being robbed of a kill.

"I expect it to be done quickly, Korse." Vornn turns to leave, before adding as an afterthought, "oh, and this is top priority. Do not allow yourself to be distracted by other work." With a flourish only achievable by the rich and evil, he leaves just as quickly as he arrived.

Korse sighs.

_So much for a day of rest. Let's get this show on the road, shall we?_


	10. Expect The Unexpected

**The Oncoming Storm  
>Chapter 8 – Expect The Unexpected<strong>

**Pairing(s): **Jet Star/Kobra Kid, Party Poison/Fun Ghoul, Anarchy/Graffiti, Korse/Himself (because he's a vain little shit.)  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Lovely foul language and slash. ~EXCESSIVE DIALOGUE, WHEEE~  
><strong>POV: <strong>3rd Person, Kobra Kid centric this chapter

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the words. Oh, and this is _headcanon._ So fuck you and your fancy lawyers.

**Chapter Summary: **As a newly named Killjoy, Kobra needs to learn more than just how to fire a raygun – he needs to know how to survive... and possibly learn a little _more_ along the way.

* * *

><p>Unsurprisingly enough, Kobra finds that he doesn't want to break this embrace just yet – he just feels too comfortably warm, too safe, and for some reason <em>wanted <em>for that to be an option. The smile on his face refuses to leave, and to be honest he'd be quite happy feeling this way forever.

All good things have to come to an end though. And as shit is it may be, their endings usually carry a _little _awkwardness with them, to say the least...

"Umm, Kobra. Are we going to... move any time today?" Jet says, still using that unusually gentle tone, but looking a lot tenser; almost as if he feels like he's been caught in the act.

"That, err, might be a good idea..." Kobra eventually stammers back, cursing his lack of confidence. He swears to god he can hearhis nonexistent social skills _laughing_ at how much he sucks sometimes. "So, what's next on the agenda then?"

_Complete subject changes... saving the day, one avoided awkward moment at a time!_

(Seems like Jet's not the only one with the magical power to conjure up a subject change, eh?)

"Well, I was thinking we could just sit and talk through some stuff, y'hear?"

Wait, what? That sounds oddly inviting to him.

"What kinda stuff, Jet?" Kobra can't help but feel a mix of excitement and anxiousness at the prospect. That is, if it's the kind of stuff he _thinks _Jet means.

Jet just grins, his hands in his pockets. He's a picture of childlike innocence right now. "Oh, y'know what I mean. Some survival tips, a few guidelines, all that shit. We don't want ya getting ghosted any time soon, now do we?"

_... Oh. Fuck, I think he's on to me. He knows, and now he's taunting me. Look at him! There's no way he's being this damn adorable without a motive._

Clearly not what he had in mind – and now his blessed paranoia's in full bloom again.

_**Special delivery for Kobra Kid! A massive facepalm, reserved just for you.  
><strong>__Oh, for fuck's sake, just when I thought you were gonna leave me alone...  
><em>_**Bitch, please. I'm your conscience. I exist to make decisions harder, conflict your emotions and laugh at your downfalls! I wouldn't miss this for the world.**_

Kobra decides it may just be safer for his remaining shreds of sanity to not respond at all - which is probably for the best.

"Sounds good to me," he finally replies when his mental state's calmed the fuck down. "Where're we headed?"

"Well, the campfire's not that far away, and it's startin' to get a bit dark... I was thinking that was our best bet."

Kobra swears Jet's blushing a little. _I don't get it, what's so embarrassing about that damn campfire? _He casts his memory back to the night before – not that he can particularly remember much of it, he's a bit shit at this whole 'being drunk' business – and draws a blank. But then, his mind gets shocked into cooperation by a helpful little reminder...

The bite-mark on Jet's neck.

The pieces of the puzzle fall together: he gave Jet that mark. Shit. Not that he meant to, of course, but still - _shit. _He should've stopped himself drinking; he knows he has that creepy, creepy habit of jumping people while he's sleeping off the booze... not that he has a fucking clue why he does it.

And god above, he shouldn't have been stupid enough to trust _Fun Ghoul, _of all people, to look after him in a state like that. He knows all too well about Kobra's bad habit, seeing as it used to be the butt of all his jokes back in Battery City.

_He probably dragged Poison away to go fuck or somethin', and left me to attack Jet. That little bastard!_

For once, Kobra was 100% accurate. (Yes, even about the fucking. Think of that what you will, dear reader.) Now that realisation's struck him, he can't help the blush creeping into his own cheeks.

"I, err... Sounds like a great idea, Jet. Let's move." Part of him wonders whether Jet knows what he's just figured out, but he daren't even look at him to try and read his expression.

_Better to be ignorant than sorry!_

That's not quite how the saying works, but hey, Kobra's more than happy to twist the words for his own sake.

The two walk in an uncomfortable sort of silence for the whole journey there, both of them trying to deny the awkwardness of said silence but failing kind of pathetically – the more they deny it, the more glaringly obvious it becomes.

They settle around the currently lifeless campfire, leaning back against a nearby rock. Kobra mentally curses the distance between them; too close for comfort in their current situation, but at the same time further away than he really wants. He can feel Jet's gaze on him, but once again he doesn't dare look: no, closely inspecting his raygun's _far_ more interesting, of course_._

Jet clears his throat loudly, and Kobra finally gathers the courage to look him in the eye again. "So, where do ya wanna start?"

"At the beginning, preferably." Kobra says sarcastically, a bit harsher than he intended. Hey, he can't exactly help his impatience, can he? He'd heard more than enough rambling to last a life time when he listened to Fun Ghoul's epic tale of escape.

To his surprise, Jet just smirks. "Don't get cocky with me, it was only a question. Unless... you don't wanna learn anything at all, Kobra?" He leans back further back against the rock, folding his arms with an air of smug satisfaction about him.

Kobra has to admit, attitude looks fucking hot on Jet.

"Hmph, well, if my teacher's gonna be such a moody bastard, I _definitely_ won't want to learn anything at all..." He plays along with a playful lilt to his voice, filled with an inner confidence he hasn't ever been aware he had.

Jet raises his eyebrows and leans in a little, until he's close enough to Kobra for him to feel his breath on his skin. "But if my student's gonna be stubborn little fucker, we ain't gonna get anywhere..." he still wears that smug expression, but what he's saying sounds a lot more serious, somehow; almost as if he's implying more than he's really saying.

_He can't... he can't mean _that, _can he?_

No, surely this is just part of the little act they've got going on here. _Surely _it doesn't mean anything else. Kobra doesn't trust his over-thinking, overanalysing brain one bit.

"Touché, touché." He says, his mouth turning unusually dry and making it hard for him to speak. "But seriously though, I'm more than willing to learn anything you're willing to teach."

Even if what Jet says doesn't mean a thing, Kobra's all too ready to throw in his own hidden meanings.

"Let's get down to business then, shall we?" Jet says simply. Kobra can't help it when his heart rate starts to race and threatens to escape his chest, only to have it sink when his fellow killjoy leans away again.

"Now, let's see... Where to begin?" Kobra's just about to chime in, but Jet silences him with his hand. "Yes, I'm well aware I have to start at the fuckin' beginning. It's just _finding _the beginning that's proving to be a pain in the ass."

Kobra can see Jet smiling, just a little, despite him seemingly being annoyed.

"Why not start with... what it means to be a killjoy?" he prompts, even though he's already pretty knowledgeable on the subject. To be honest, he just knows that Jet will get overly enthusiastic about it all, and he finds it adorable to watch.

"That's a pretty good idea, actually." His smile grows wider and he sits up straight. "Being a killjoy... it's about being free. Not just having your own freedom, mind – it's about fighting for the freedom of _everyone. _There's no room to be a selfish bastard, y'see. You work as a team with whoever you can trust, and you try your damn hardest to keep running. No one gets left behind; you stick together no matter what. And of course, you kick some Better Livin' Industry ass along the way."

You can see the cogs in his mind turning, working too quickly and excitedly for his mouth to keep up.

"When you become a killjoy, in a way, you leave your old self behind. It helps you to let go of who you were before – you live in the now, or you get shot in the face because you're livin' in the past. All you need to do is be yourself, and take whatever shit gets thrown at you. It makes you a stronger person, I guess."

Jet sees the mixed expression of awe and slight confusion on Kobra's face when he finishes, and in a flash he becomes more self-conscious. "I... I kinda went a bit overboard there. Sorry 'bout that."

But Kobra doesn't mind at all – he likes it when Jet opens up. In the short while that he's known him, he's found that the older man isn't as confident as he might seem to others. He hesitates, over-thinks, and hides behind his facade of cool, collected confidence. Part of Kobra finds that endearing, but a bigger part of him wants him to let go of those little inhibitions he has.

Not that he can really say anything: he's got all the confidence of a socially awkward turtle.

"It's cool, Jet. It was actually kinda cute, seeing how much you got into it all." Kobra says on impulse – he won't lie, he feels successful when he sees Jet start to blush like a fucking schoolgirl.

"Wait, what...?" He turns away, trying to hide his embarrassment but failing miserably.

"Hey, you said it to me on the day we met, remember? '_There's no shame out here.'_" Kobra smirks, proud of himself for finally getting one-up on Jet.

"I have to hand it to ya Kobra, you learn this shit pretty quick..."

"What can I say? I'm learning from the best." _Damn, I'm on a roll._ He gives himself a mental pat on the back, as you do.

But Jet seems all too willing to combo-break him here, quickly changing the subject. Subject changes are quickly becoming a trend here (which is a shame, because they used to be so underground, even hipsters loved them).

"Damn straight you are. Now, I think I've got a pretty good idea of what to teach you next..."

Kobra's head gets filled with everything he could ever possibly need to know about desert survival, to the point where he feels like he's gonna explode. His brain's curled up into a little ball and is rocking back and forth in his skull, refusing to take in anything else. Can't be a good sign.

Making fires, finding food, weapon maintenance, finding shelter... he's got a sample of every skill he could ever need, and some that he's pretty sure he'll never need. Hell, he's even seen a map of the Zones, but he couldn't make sense of any of it. Geography's not exactly his strong point.

All of Jet's words are kind of washing right over him, going in one ear and coming straight out of the other. He sighs and rubs his temples – he's got a headache coming on, that much is obvious. Information overload. _Do not want._

Jet finally takes the hint, stopping himself midsentence. "You alright there, Kobra...?" he says, his tone laced with concern.

"Yeah, 'm fine... I'm just trying to process everything you're telling me, I guess."

"Well, I am kinda throwing all this shit your way at once... sorry 'bout that."

But Kobra just shrugs. "S'okay. You're doing this so I know how to not get my ass kicked, or even worse, die of something shitty like starvation. I appreciate that, Jet. Really."

"That's good to hear, Kid." Jet smiles.

"But I think I know enough to keep me alive for now, don't you? Besides, it's not like I'm heading out there alone. I have you." He looks Jet in the eye when he says this, his smile growing.

"You do. I ain't going anywhere." Jet's not looking at Kobra now, focussing on anything but him. But as Kobra moves to stand up and head back inside, he reaches forward and grabs him by the shoulder. "Wait."

"Hmm?"

"Just wait a second for me, okay? I... I... There's one last thing I need to talk to you about." His voice is unusually quiet, and his body language screams apprehension and nervousness.

Kobra can't help but feel his heart thudding in his chest again, so quickly it feels like it might just explode along with his overstressed brain. "Wh-what about, Jet?"

_Now's not a good time to abandon me, confidence. Seriously._

It's a bit late for that, though.

The sun is sinking now, painting the sky with vivid tones of red and orange. It casts a surreal sort of glow on the two of them. Makes the atmosphere seem almost surreal.

"Kobra, I... It's just... you have to promise not to hate me for this, a'ight?"

Kobra swallows hard, anxiety building in the pit of his stomach. "I don't think I could ever really hate you, Jet." _You've saved my life. You've been there for me._

"Well, thank god for that, because I'm shit with words."

With that said, he pulls Kobra towards him, leaning over to kiss him gently. Kobra's eyes widen, a soft whimper escaping him as he kisses back. He shifts closer to him, tangling his hands in the curls of his hair. There's nothing rough about the situation, no desperation, no need to rush – they revel in the feeling of being close at last. It's as if the growing tension between them has become warmth, travelling through the connection between them.

And damn, it feels perfect.

"You see? I could never hate you, Jet." He says breathlessly when they finally pull away, resting their foreheads together. Jet's hand caresses his cheek, and that uncharacteristically soft side of him is showing again. "It's kinda the opposite, really..."

Nothing more needs to be said. The two of them lean back, their fingers entwining between them. Words can come later.

For now, the peace of watching the sunset together is more than enough for Jet and Kobra.


End file.
